"He  Waved  a  Last  Farewell 


His  Still  (Patching  Friend 
Page 64 


DOROTHY 

A  TALE  OF  TWO  LANDS 


By 

ELIZABETH  SISSON 

Author  of  "  Richard  Ncwcomb  " 


CINCINNATI:    JENNINGS   AND   GRAHAM 
NEW    YORK:    EATON    AND    MAINS 


COPYRIGHT,    1906,    BV 
JENNINGS  &  GRAHAM 


f, 


'3 
,<K 

CONTENTS 


part  I 

Chapter  Page 

I.   A  MESSAGE,      -  7 

II.   DOROTHY,      ....  IG 

III.  THE  OLD  MAN  WITH  THE 

GRAY  HAIR,  22 

IV.  DOROTHY'S  CHILDHOOD.       -  28 
V.   THE  STRANGERS  AND  DOROTHY,  34 

VI.   AN  AWAKENING  TOUCH,      -  41 

VII.   THE  KNOBS,       -  SO 
VIII.  AT  THE  COMMAND  OF  His 

CHURCH,    ...  53 
IX.  A  COURT-HOUSE  WAR,  AND 

A  SEQUENCE,  65 

X.  AN  IMPORTANT  ARRIVAL,  75 

XI.  A  FOURTH  OF  JULY,  87 

XII.  AN  INCIDENT  OR  Two,  98 

XIII.  ROBERT  AND  DOROTHY,    -       -  ill 

XIV.  CAMP  SUNNY  SLOPE,      -       -  117 


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CONTENTS 

Chapter  Page 

XV.  BARK  COTTAGE,     -       -  -    126 

XVI.  PIVOTAL,     -       -       -  -        136 

XVII.  IN  THE  LIVERY  OF  HEAVEN,  -    141 

XVIII.  IN  A  SINGLE  DAY,      -  -         152 

XIX.  EARTH  TO  EARTH,  -    164 

XX.  A  FRIEND  NEEDED,    -  -        171 

XXI.   HOMELESS,       -        -        -  -    179 

XXII.   DAVID,  194 

XXIII.  VENGEANCE  is  MINE,      -  -    206 

XXIV.  HUNTED— FOUND,      -  215 

Part  II 

XXV.  AFTER  FIVE  YEARS— A 

RESUME,         -       -       «•  -    237 

XXVI.  ONCE  MORE  AT  SUNNY  SLOPE,    249 

XXVII.  ANOTHER  GUEST,    -       -  -    263 

XXVIII.  A  FOREST  FIRE,  277 

XXIX.   PLANS,     -        -       -       -  292 

XXX.   OUAH  FOLKS,      -       -  -•        302 

XXXI.  FINALLY,-       -       .      >  -    312 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


Facing  Page 

"  HE   WAVED   A   LAST    FAREWELL  TO 
His  STILL  WATCHING  FRIEND  " 

Frontispiece 

"THE  WELL  MEANT  CONSOLATION 
TURNED  TO  SMOKE"        -        -        -    56 

"  SHE  SETTLED  HERSELF  INTO  A  CURVE 
OF  THE  SWING"  82 

"DAT's  MARSA  ROBERTS'S  SPERRIT"     306 


Dorothy 

Part  I 

CHAPTER  I 
A  MESSAGE 

ON  a  certain  autumnal  morning — how  many  years 
ago  does  not  matter — a  sleepy  little  village  in  Southern 
Indiana  was  slowly  arousing  itself  to  its  own  simple 
round  of  daily  life. 

Just  as  the  hands  of  the  old  Colonial  clock,  which 
had  stood  for  years  in  the  waiting-room  of  the  tavern, 
pointed  to  the  hour  of  eight,  the  clear,  outringing  tones 
of  a  bell  broke  the  early  morning  calm,  and  at  the  sound 
the  arousement  of  the  village  was  complete;  for  there 
was  not  a  man,  woman,  or  child  who  heard,  but  had 
paused  to  listen.  And  little  wonder!  Hitherto  the 
entire  mission  of  the  ringing  bell  had  been  to  make  its 
fortnightly  announcement  of  the  coming  "Sunday  ser- 
mon," or,  at  intervals  happily  rare,  to  tell  of  the  peril 
by  fire  of  a  villager's  home.  But  the  present  was  a 
dignified  ring,  quite  out  of  the  common,  as  if  the 
supreme  moment  in  its  entire  bell  life  had  come,  and 
it  had  wisely  resolved  to  make  the  most  of  it. 


DOROTHY 

But  the  sound,  if  unusual,  was  evidently  expected; 
for  Mrs.  Mehitable  Perkins,  who  was  at  the  moment 
giving  her  sheets  to  the  breeze  (her  crestfallen  rival, 
Mrs.  Neighbor,  being  still  in  the  suds),  halted  in  her 
triumph,  listened  to  a  few  strokes,  then,  removing  a 
clothes-pin  from  her  mouth,  called  to  some  one  in  the 
house:  "There  it  is  now!  'Zekiel,  you  hurry  up! 
Do  n't  you  start  in  by  being  late !" 

A  moment  before  the  ringing,  a  half-dozen  village 
loafers  had  betaken  themselves,  each  by  his  own  route, 
to  their  usual  place  of  meeting,  the  village  "Store." 
These  met,  as  it  happened,  on  the  store  steps. 

With  the  first  strokes  they  paused,  exchanged 
glances  of  understanding;  then,  with  an  air  of  alac- 
rity, each  hastened  inside,  and  lost  no  time  in  appro- 
priating a  comfortable  box  or  keg,  shrewdly  guessing 
that  on  this,  of  all  other  days,  there  would  be  much 
to  discuss,  and  that  were  better  done  if  one  were  com- 
fortable. 

Meanwhile  the  face  of  the  proprietor  of  the  "Store," 
John  Sumner,  was  a  study  in  emotions,  triumph  being 
conspicuous. 

The  cause  of  all  this  unusual  perturbation  lay  in 
the  message  of  the  bell;  for  from  its  copper  throat  it 
was  announcing  to  both  friend  and  foe  that  the  "Mid- 
dletown  Seminary"  was  now  an  actuality;  in  proof  of 
which,  many  of  the  older  girls  and  boys  of  the  village, 
with  not  a  few  from  the  adjoining  farms,  were  already 
gathering  about  the  church  door — for  what,  they 
scarcely  knew,  but  for  something  out  of  the  ordinary, 
each  felt  assured.  An  explanation  requires  a  retrospect. 


A  MESSAGE 

The  "Store,"  during  one  of  the  early  months  of  the 
last  spring,  had  been  the  scene  of  an  unusual  excite- 
ment. It  had  been  the  good  fortune  of  one  of  the 
loungers  to  come  weighted  with  a  bit  of  news,  which, 
he  well  knew,  would  set,  not  only  his  fellows,  but  the 
village  as  well,  quite  agog.  By  a  herculean  effort  he 
withheld  the  precious  morsel  till  the  last  habitue  was 
in  his  place;  then  casually  mentioned  that  the  "old 
Snowden  farm"  had  found  a  purchaser.  (A  farm 
which,  by  the  way,  had  achieved  a  sort  of  local  notori- 
ety by  having,  since  the  death  of  the  owner,  run  the 
gauntlet  of  more  than  one  "slack"  renter,  having  finally 
lain  idle  for  some  years.) 

This  "casual  mention"  at  once  aroused  interest; 
but  when  the  further  information  was  volunteered  that 
the  purchaser  was  a  "city  man" — and  from  a  Southern 
city  at  that — and  that  his  wife,  with  a  younger  brother, 
now  somewhere  at  college,  were  the  sole  survivors  of 
what  had  been,  not  many  years  before,  a  large  plan- 
tation home,  the  interest  became  intense ;  and  the  happy 
news-vender  found  himself,  as  indeed  he  had  counted 
on  being,  the  center  of  that  interest  and  a  target  for 
many  questions. 

It  may  well  be  doubted  if  Cushi  and  his  ilk,  as 
"bringers  of  tidings,"  have  been,  after  all,  put  very 
greatly  to  shame  by  our  modern  methods  of  news  dis- 
tribution ;  for  before  nightfall,  without  the  aid  of  either 
telephone  or  telegraph,  this  particular  bit  of  news  had 
traveled,  not  only  to  the  remotest  corner  of  the  neigh- 
borhood, but  was  crossing  the  boundary-lines  of  those 
adjoining. 

9 


DOROTHY 

In  the  village,  there  was  at  once  a  sudden  and  per- 
ceptible increase  of  neighborly  courtesies.  Tempting 
dishes  of  pickles,  jars  of  preserves,  and  heaped-up  plates 
of  sugared  crullers  traveled  back  and  forth  over  back 
fences,  while  sunbonneted  women  grasped  the  "passing" 
opportunity  to  discuss  first  the  original  bit  of  news,  and 
then  the  startling  sensations,  which  rapidly  succeeded 
each  other. 

It  was  finally  accepted  that  the  newcomer  (who 
soon  arrived  and  took  possession  of  his  new  purchase) 
had  traveled  much — "around  the  world,  clear  around" 
one  woman  said  to  another  in  awesome  tones;  also 
that  when  younger  (he  was  still  not  old),  he  had  been 
principal  of  a  Southern  college;  that  he  "still  put  in 
all  his  time  studying,"  though  what,  no  one  tried  to 
guess,  and  in  writing  books;  further,  that  for  a  year 
he  had  been  in  ill  health,  an  invalid  in  fact;  and,  lastly, 
that  it  was  solely  a  desire  for  rest  and  quiet  which  had 
brought  him  to  their  neighborhood.  All  this  was  so 
much  out  of  the  ordinary,  the  villagers  could  do  noth- 
ing more  than  shake  their  heads  and  await  develop- 
ments. 

As  has  been  said,  this  had  occurred  in  the  early 
spring;  but  before  the  dust  on  the  village  street  had 
begun  to  grow  white  under  the  glare  of  the  August 
sun,  the  stranger  had  become  a  recognized  part  of  the 
village  life.  As  "Professor  Williamson"  he  had  been 
known  at  first,  the  title  spoken  in  an  awesome,  defer- 
ential tone;  for  none  were  inclined  to  make  premature 
offers  of  a  friendship  that  might  possibly  be  rejected. 

But  as  the  months  passed  by,  and  one  and  all  be- 
IO 


A  MESSAGE 

came  accustomed  to  his  kindly  face,  to  his  courteous 
greetings  at  the  "Store,"  where  he  came  to  get  his  mail 
(such  quantities,  the  observant  ones  noticed),  and  to 
his  genuine  interest  in  each  individual,  he  was  received 
on  more  friendly  terms,  and  became  "the  Professor," 
as  if  he  were  the  only  specimen  of  his  kind.  And  now 
the  village  began  to  take  a  certain  pride  in  his  pres- 
ence; so  much  so  that  on  those  special  days,  such  as  a 
"big  speaking"  or  a  "basket-meeting,"  when  common 
interests  brought  in  members  of  other  communities,  not 
a  villager  but  would  point  him  out  with  a  highly  pro- 
prietary air,  as  "Our  Professor,"  quite  in  a  tone,  too, 
that  seemed  to  challenge,  "Produce  his  equal  if  you 
can." 

This  friendship,  though  slower  in  being  offered, 
came  in  time  to  be  extended  to  the  young  wife;  who, 
no  doubt,  found  life  on  a  run-down  farm  at  the  edge 
of  a  small  village,  very  different  from  that  of  the  old 
plantation.  "But  if  'the  Professor,'  hers  in  very  truth — 
for  he  had  won  her  at  that  self-same  Southern  college 
of  which  rumor  had  whispered — recovered,  all  would 
indeed  be  well."  This  she  told  herself  over  and  over. 

Village  sentiment  was  compelled  to  hold  extra  ses- 
sions, however,  to  settle  the  social  status  of  a  certain 
other  member  of  the  family.  This  was  "Aunt  Violet," 
the  "Missus's  own  old  mammy,"  who,  with  a  devotion 
the  world  is  not  likely  to  see  again,  was  loyally  follow- 
ing her  "young  Missus"  to  the  end.  Yet  even  she, 
before  the  ringing  of  the  bell  that  autumnal. morning, 
had  found  her  "niche."  It  had  happened  on  this  wise. 

On  the  first  Sunday  after  the  arrival  of  the 
II 


DOROTHY 

strangers,  Aunt  Violet,  neatly  turbaned,  had  glided 
into  the  little  church,  and,  with  an  appearance  of  great 
humility,  had  proceeded  to  appropriate  for  herself  a 
certain  corner,  in  which,  on  each  succeeding  "preaching 
day,"  she  had  sat,  usually  a  model  of  suppressed  fervor. 
But  on  one  never-to-be-forgotten  occasion  religious  zeal 
melted  the  ice  of  her  reserve,  and  the  newcomer  was 
conceded  to  be  "mighty  powerful  in  prayer  and  gifted 
in  exhortation ;"  as  a  sequence — it  came  to  be  generally 
understood — a  mere  matter  of  color  ought  not  to  be  a 
bar  to  Christian  fellowship.  (She  did  not  ask  social.) 

As  the  summer  lengthened,  it  became  evident  that 
the  pure  country  air  was  wooing  the  stranger  back  to 
health;  the  air,  aided  by  the  wild  blackberries  that  ran 
riot  over  his  new  possessions,  aided,  too,  by  the  squirrels 
that  whisked  up  and  down  the  trees  in  a  grove  of 
beeches  near  by,  or  ran  races,  which  he  never  tired  of 
watching,  along  the  lichen-patched  rail  fence — a  fence 
so  tumble-down  that  picturesqueness  was  its  only  ele- 
ment of  use. 

If  one's  garments  have  once  brushed  the  damp  of 
that  mystic  river  of  which  poets  sing,  or  one?s  eyes  have 
been  turned  to  catch  the  approach  of  the  storied  boat- 
man, and  if,  when  the  feet  have  seemed  about  slipping, 
they  are  suddenly  caught  and  turned  once  more  toward 
the  busy  marts  of  life,  the  return  journey  is  full  of  sur- 
prises. We  had  not  suspected  that  the  world  was  so 
beautiful,  nor  yet  that  the  bent  forms  and  careworn 
faces  of  those  about  us  were,  after  all,  but  outer  husks 
beneath  which  dwelt  the  most  genuine  sympathy,  the 
tenderest  love,  and  the  truest  nobility.  It  is  a  pitifully 
12 


A  MESSAGE 

barren  heart  that  does  not  thrill  at  such  a  time,  not 
only  with  gratitude  for  life,  but  with  a  longing  to  add 
something  to  the  world's  store  of  happiness. 

The  heart  of  the  stranger  was  far  from  barren,  and 
it  soon  warmed  to  the  kindly  people  about  him.  So, 
when  one  day  an  old  man  brought  as  a  gift  a  basket 
of  choice  June  apples,  his  eyes  were  "holden"  to  every- 
thing save  the  "brotherhood"  which  shone  from  the 
donor's  eyes. 

Again,  when  a  neighbor  brought  from  her  own  hill- 
side springhouse  a  pitcher  of  fresh  buttermilk,  he  did 
not  observe  that  the  hand  which  held  the  pitcher  was 
gnarled  and  work-worn,  or  that  the  presentation  speech 
was  not  in  the  purest  English ;  he  saw  only  a  generous 
heart,  and  a  fellow-creature  who,  through  environment, 
had  been  shut  out  from  his  own  broader  world ;  and  a 
longing  came  and  grew,  to  open  in  some  way  for  each 
the  door  into  that  same  world. 

It  followed  therefore,  and  without  apparent  plan, 
that,  as  he  lounged  under  the  beeches  during  the  sum- 
mer's convalescence,  the  children  of  the  village  came 
to  shyly  gather  about  him,  and  to  listen  as  he  read  to 
them,  sometimes  a  poem,  sometimes  of  a  storied  hero, 
always  of  something  that  lifted  them  out  of  their  nar- 
row life,  and  kindled  their  not  always  dull  imagina- 
tion. 

Even  before  his  coming  there  were  those  in  the 
village  who,  catching  now  and  then  a  murmur  from 
the  surging  world  without,  had  grown  restless  under 
the  meager  advantages  which  the  pitiful  "three  months' 
district  school"  afforded  their  children.  Said  one  of 

13 


DOROTHY 

these  to  another  as  the  stranger  went  in  and  out  among 
them,  each  day  a  little  stronger,  "If  he  would  only 
teach  our  young  people."  Some  one  at  length  was  bold 
enough  to  suggest  the  thought  to  the  kindly  man.  He 
considered  the  matter  long  and  earnestly,  and  finally 
made  answer  that  "if  the  villagers  would  come  together 
in  the  little  church,  he  would  present  certain  matters 
to  them."  Of  course  all  came,  and,  once  there,  lis- 
tened to  a  broad  setting  forth  of  the  value  of  education, 
and  to  the  added  suggestion  that  those  having  the  wel- 
fare of  the  next  generation  at  heart  ought  to  establish 
a  school  to  supplement  the  work  done  by  the  State,  the 
speaker  promising  at  least  to  oversee  the  organization, 
and  afterward  aid  in  securing  teachers. 

We  seldom  realize  what  is  to  be  the  full  effect  of 
that  for  which  we  strive.  So  now  no  one  suspected 
that  the  future  of  the  little  community  hung  upon  the 
issue  of  the  "battle"  at  once  on.  Uncle  John  Sumner, 
proprietor  of  the  "Store,"  became  the  acknowledged 
leader  of  the  new  movement,  and  the  "Store"  the  storm- 
center  at  which  the  entire  theory  of  education  was  daily 
exploited.  The  battle  waged  for  fully  two  weeks.  At 
the  end  of  that  time  it  was  found  that  a  proper  finan- 
cial basis  for  the  school  had  been  secured,  and  its  estab- 
lishment assured. 

With  the  victory,  a  name  became  the  next  consider- 
ation. In  view  of  its  embryonic  condition,  "the  Pro- 
fessor" proposed  the  word  "Select"  as  amply  desig- 
nating all  implied.  But  this  did  not  find  favor;  "Se- 
lect" hinted  of  caste,  and  they  would  have  none  of  that. 
Finally — amid  not  a  few  quiet  smiles  from  "the  Pro- 

H 


A  MESSAGE 

fessor" — it  was  gravely  christened  "The  Seminary." 
Little  wonder  that  the  village  was  stirred,  as  we  have 
seen,  when  the  ringing  bell  had  not  only  announced  its 
opening,  but  also  that,  for  lack  of  better  housing,  it 
was,  for  the  present,  at  home  in  the  little  church,  which 
creaked  beneath  the  swinging  bell.  Of  this  school, 
and  (of  necessity)  of  its  far-reaching  influence  upon 
the  little  community,  this  story  does  not  directly  lie. 

But  trying  to  find  a  suitable  place  among  the  im- 
provised desks  in  which  to  stow  her  "Ray's  Third  Part 
of  Arithmetic"  and  her  "Geography  and  Great  Atlas," 
we  observe  a  young  girl  of  perhaps  fifteen  years.  In 
her  we  shall  find  our  chief  interest.  She  has  a  bright, 
winsome  face,  one  that  appeals  to  us  at  the  outset.  The 
villagers  call  her  "Dorothy,"  and  as  we  are  to  know 
her  better,  so  shall  we. 


CHAPTER  II 
DOROTHY 

WHO  was  Dorothy?  Who  was  her  father?  Who 
was  her  mother?  Pertinent  questions  all,  especially  in 
these  days  of  honored  "Dames"  and  "Daughters,"  and 
the  possible  overcrowding,  besides,  of  the  illustrious 
Mayflower,  as  is  gravely  hinted,  in  a  commendable 
search  for  a  clean  bill  of  ancestry. 

If  Dorothy  were  asked  to  give  an  account  of  herself, 
her  story,  without  doubt,  would  savor  of  the  incoherent, 
but  might  run  on  this  wise. 

Away  back — it  must  have  been  in  the  misty  time 
of  babyhood — she  seemed  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  a  little 
child  of  perhaps  three  years,  playing  about  an  open 
door.  Though  the  door  remained  always  shadowy, 
through  it  she  caught  glimpses,  even  yet,  of  a  sweet 
face,  and  seemed  to  hear  a  gentle  voice  calling,  "Baby ! 
baby  must  not  stray  away!"  Sometimes  a  tall  man 
would  come  into  the  picture ;  then  there  would  be  much 
tossing  and  laughter,  and  a  triumphant  ride  about  the 
yard  and  into  the  house  upon  a  pair  of  shoulders  so 
high  that  Dorothy  remembered  reaching  out  her  little 
hands  to  catch  the  blue  and  the  flecks  of  white;  just 
above  her. 

Then  the  picture  grew  dim ;  there  was  so  little  she 
could  remember;  only  somehow  a  shadow  seemed  to 

16      . 


DOROTHY 

come  over  it  all.  She  of  the  sweet  face  was  often  in 
tears,  and  the  baby  would  climb  into  her  lap,  cuddle 
down,  and  whisper,  "Do  n't  cry,"  and  wonder  how  a 
big  woman  could  "hurt"  herself  so  much.  Then  the 
tall  man  would  look  at  them  both,  so  sorry. 

It  crept  into  the  baby  brain  that  somehow  he  knew 
all  about  it;  for  he  would  take  them  both  on  his  big 
lap,  and  the  sweet  face  would  be  hid  on  his  shoulder, 
and  a  pitiful  voice  would  sob,  "O  you  must  not!  you 
must  not!"  But  all  the  while,  though  the  tears  ran 
down  his  cheeks,  he  had  a  far-away  look  in  his  eyes, 
and  Dorothy  would  turn  her  little  head  to  see  at  what 
he  looked,  but  only  the  blue  sky,  the  grass,  and  the 
flowers  met  her  eyes. 

There  were  only  one  or  two  other  memories.  One 
day  "Old  Fan"  was  hitched  to  the  light  wagon. 
Dorothy  clapped  her  little  hands.  She  knew  she  was  to 
ride;  and  she  did.  And  O,  there  were  so  many  other 
people  who  rode  too!  There  were  big  wagons,  grace- 
fully decked  with  evergreens  and  filled  with  young 
girls,  who  wore  white  dresses  and  such  cunning  white 
caps !  They  each  carried  what  the  tall  man  had  taught 
Dorothy  to  call  a  flag,  and  the  child  had  one  of  her 
own,  and  he  had  shown  her  how  to  toss  it  as  she  saw 
others  doing. 

Then  a  man  talked,  and  the  girls  in  white  sang, 
and  after  that  there  was  a  great  noise,  and  men  waved 
their  hats  and  women  their  flags  and  cheered,  and  sud- 
denly Dorothy,  from  the  altitude  of  the  big  shoulders, 
saw  a  great  flag,  just  like  her  own  little  one,  move 
slowly  up  what  seemed  a  tall  tree  without  branches, 
I7 


DOROTHY 

up,  up  still  higher,  till,  reaching  the  top,  it  seemed  to 
gently  unfold  itself  and  smile  at  those  below.  Again 
the  people  cheered,  and  Dorothy's  "tall  man"  loudest 
of  all. 

That  evening,  while  "Fan"  was  being  cared  for, 
Dorothy  saw  her  of  the  sweet  face  throw  herself  face 
downward  on  the  bed,  then  heard  her  moan.  Presently 
she  arose,  and  as  she  went  about  the  house  she  had  such 
a  still,  white  face,  it  greatly  frightened  her.  Again 
the  picture  was  wavering  and  uncertain,  until  another 
stood  out  clearly  and  distinctly. 

There  had  been  a  long  early  morning  ride.  She 
must  have  been  asleep  when  it  began;  when  it  ended, 
they  were  again  in  a  crowd  of  people.  The  women 
were  all  crying,  all  but  her  mamma,  who  stood  very 
still,  and  when  she  tugged  at  her  dress  she  did  not 
stoop  to  take  her.  Suddenly  all  started.  It  was  the 
now  familiar  sound  of  the  drum  and  fife  which  had 
caught  their  attention.  A  cry  went  around,  "They 
are  corning!"  and  a  company  of  men  dressed  all  alike 
came  in  sight.  Quite  in  front,  carrying  a  great  flag, 
she  saw  her  own  dear  "tall  man,"  and  in  a  moment 
she  was  in  his  arms,. and  the  big  flag  had  quite  hid  her 
in  its  folds. 

Then  there  was  a  whistle.  A  train  came  round 
the  curve;  there  was  much  confusion  and  crying,  and 
Dorothy  felt  herself  hugged  till  It  hurt.  Then  the  tall 
man  was  gone,  and  an  old  man  with  gray  hair  had 
taken  her  into  his  arms,  and  was  telling  her  not  to  cry ; 
"that  her  father  would  come  again;  that  she  could 
always  remember  that  he  had  not  been  a  coward,  and 

18 


DOROTHY 

had  loved  his  country."  She  vaguely  wondered  what 
the  two  strange  words  might  mean. 

Then  she  looked  for  her  mamma,  and  saw  women 
bending  over  her  as  she  lay  very  still.  Some  one  asked 
if  she  were  dead,  and  the  reply  came,  "Not  quite,  poor 
thing!  It  would  be  better,  perhaps,  if  she  were." 

There  were  but  one  or  two  other  touches  in  Dor- 
othy's ancestral  picture.  After  this  the  home  was  al- 
ways still,  and  she  of  the  white  face  sorrowful,  going 
often  with  Dorothy  for  the  letter  which  did  not  always 
come.  One  day — they  had  gone  together  to  the  post — 
every  one  seemed  very  still  and  quiet,  and  spoke  only 
of  something  they  called  a  "terrible  battle,"  and  a  man 
was  slowly  reading  aloud  a  long  list  of  names  out  of 
a  paper. 

Then  in  some  way  they  were  in  their  own  home 
again,  and  the  house  was  full  of  strange  people.  A 
woman  took  her  on  her  lap,  and  crying,  stroked  her 
hair  and  called  her  "poor  baby." 

Just  one  other  memory,  and  the  picture  was  ended. 
And  hard  as  she  might  try  (and  did,  when  she  was 
older),  there  was  nothing  more  that  she  could  recall. 
This  last  memory  was  of  being  once  more  in  a  crowd 
of  people,  under  the  open  sky,  and  in  what  the  country 
people  called  a  "graveyard." 

There  was  an  open  grave,  and  an  open  coffin  beside 
it,  and  in  this  Dorothy  saw  the  sweet  face  for  the  last 
time.  They  told  her  she  was  dead  and  about  to  be 
buried.  Suddenly  she  began  to  sob  and  cry  out,  not 
for  the  young  mother  before  her,  but  for  the  dear  "tall 
man"  who  had  always  been  so  ready  to  take  her  in  his 


DOROTHY 

arms  and  to  comfort  her.  And  to  ask  why,  if  he  were 
dead  too,  as  they  said,  he  was  not  here  with  her  mamma. 

The  kindly  people  tried  to  comfort  her,  and  told 
her  that  could  not  be ;  which  was  indeed  true,  for  when 
she  was  older  she  read  in  a  yellow  old  newspaper  that 
had  been  kept  for  her  a  single  line  following  her 
father's  name:  "Left  dead  upon  the  battlefield."  In 
the  midst  of  her  tears  the  old  man  with  the  gray  hair 
made  his  way  to  the  side  of  the  neighbor  who  held  her, 
and  taking  her  in  his  arms,  as  he  had  done  once  before, 
he  told  her  she  was  now  to  be  "his  own  little  girl." 

This  had  indeed  come  to  pass.  For  at  the  open- 
ing of  the  "Seminary"  Dorothy,  now  much  grown 
from  the  old  baby  days,  had  been  for  many  years 
Dorothy  Sumner. 

The  young  soldier,  John  Ryedale,  had  indeed  given 
his  "all"  to  his  country, — life,  wife,  even  his  precious 
baby,  who  was  now  growing  to  womanhood  bearing 
not  his  name,  but  that  of  the  kind  old  man  who  had 
taken  her  to  his  heart. 

But  were  there  no  relatives  to  care  for  the  child, 
no  grandfather  or  mother,  not  even  an  aunt,  ta  care 
for  the  child  ?  No,  not  in  America. 

In  a  little  village  in  the  southern  part  of  Scotland, 
where  the  land  runs  out  to  meet  the  sea,  and  where 
the  more  austere  Scot  has  caught  something  of  the 
vivacity  and  richer  fancies  of  his  neighbors  across  the 
waters,  John  Ryedale,  of  Highland  birth,  had  won  his 
sweet-faced  bride;  and  because  she  had  been  yielded 
grudgingly,  and  because  he  had  his  own  fortune  to 
wrest  from  mother  earth,  they  had  together  made  the 
2O 


DOROTHY 

long  journey  to  America.  In  their  new  little  home 
their  child  had  been  born ;  and  she,  who  had  left  friends 
and  home,  had  been,  after  the  manner  of  woman,  quite 
content. 

Strange  that  in  so  short  a  time  he  had  grown  to 
love  his  adopted  country  well  enough  to  lay  upon  its 
altar  so  rich  an  offering!  Yet  not  altogether  strange. 
Generations  before  there  had  been  Ryedales  among  the 
followers  of  Bruce;  Ryedales  to  whom  "liberty"  had 
ever  been  a  sweet  word;  and  among  the  first  notes  of 
the  coming  conflict  this?  their  latest  son,  had  caught  the 
echo  of  a  bitter  cry  that  had  welled  up  from  an  op- 
pressed race — a  race  that  God  was  planning  to  make 
free. 

Alas  that  for  freedom,  history  has  ever  recorded  a 
bitter  price!  Nor  was  it  strange  that  she  should  have 
loved  the  man  better  than  the  new  country ;  better  even 
than  her  fatherland,  storied  home  of  brave  men. 

So  have  women  ever  done.  So  will  they,  doubtless, 
till  the  end  of  time. 


21 


CHAPTER  III 
THE  OLD  MAN  WITH  THE  GRAY  HAIR 

"UNCLE  JOHN  SUMNER"  was  one  of  the  essential 
"characters"  of  the  village;  nor  was  his  wife,  "Aunt 
Lucy,"  less  so.  They  were  a  childless  pair,  and  lived 
alone  in  a  roomy  brick  house,  that  stood  in  a  large 
yard,  quite  back  from  the  village  street.  The  yard 
sloped  to  the  front,  and  was  as  prim  and  methodical 
as  the  two  old  people  themselves.  Grass  might  struggle 
and  grow  thin  in  less  favored  yards,  but  in  this  it  was 
always  luxuriant. 

A  gravel  walk  ran  the  entire  length  of  the  yard 
and  into  it  no  daring  weed  ever  intruded.  On  either 
side,  tulips,  jonquils,  and  daffodils  came  up,  and  blos- 
somed with  such  regularity  that  they  became  a  sort  of 
village  calendar  of  seasons.  If  a  villager  came  home 
and  announced  "the  jonquils  are  up  in  'Uncle  John's' 
yard,"  though  the  snow  might  yet  cling  in  patches, 
spring  was  acknowledged  to  be  at  hand,  and  the  house- 
wife began  to  stir  herself  about  the  spring  cleaning,  to 
sort  over  the  herbs  in  the  attic,  and  to  put  the  ashes 
to  leach  in  the  back  yard  for  the  annual  soap-making. 

A  pear-tree  which  never  knew  blight  shaded  the 
kitchen  door,  and  bore  the  choice  pears  of  the  neighbor- 
hood. These  ripened  unmolested  by  the  village  boys, 
who  one  and  all  owned  a  wholesome  awe  of  the  owner. 
22 


THE  OLD  MAN  WITH  THE  GRAY  HAIR 

If  the  two  were  "close,"  they  were  that  with  a  dis- 
tinction. For  instance,  when  the  pears  were  at  their 
best,  if  a  covetous  boy  should  peer  longingly  through 
the  palings,  Aunt  Lucy  would  at  once  gather  in  her 
check-apron  some  of  the  most  luscious  of  the  fruit ;  but 
though  the  deed  were  kindly,  as  she  handed  them  out, 
hers  would  be  so  stern  a  visage,  and  her  "Clear  out, 
now,"  so  peremptory,  that  the  clearance  came  in  a 
twinkling. 

The  two  were  really  kind  at  heart,  but  they  had 
lived  too  long  in  peaceful  quiet  to  look  with  favor 
upon  children,  regarding  them  as  the  natural  enemies 
of  order. 

It  was  into  this  staid  home  that  "Dorothy  the 
loved"  had  been  transplanted;  and  the  transplanting 
proved  a  fruitful  theme  for  neighborhood  discussion. 
Really  the  transplanting  was  so  remarkable  that  a  closer 
study  of  the  couple  and  of  their  environments  seems 
necessary. 

"Uncle  John,"  though  taciturn  and  peremptory  in 
manner,  was  held  in  high  esteem.  He  has  already  been 
mentioned  as  the  proprietor  of  that  center  of  influence, 
the  village  store.  There  his  unswerving  honesty  was 
rightly  considered  of  more  worth  than  smooth  phrases. 
His  word  was  known  among  his  neighbors  to  be  as 
inviolate  as  his  bond,  and  his  guarantee  of  an  article 
forever  settled  its  worth. 

The  "Store"  was  more  than  a  mere  place  of  barter 
and  sale.  It  was  at  once  a  "Creed  Debating  Society," 
a  "Political  Club,"  and  a  generally  accepted  "news 
center."  Not  a  "rainy  spell"  and  a  consequent  slack 

23 


DOROTHY 

time  on  the  farm,  but  witnessed  the  refighting  of  bat- 
tles, both  ecclesiastical  and  political,  with  the  preference 
in  favor  of  the  former. 

Religiously,  the  neighborhood  was  about  evenly  di- 
vided. There  were  Baptists,  whose  church  stood  at 
the  farther  end  of  the  one  long  straggling  village  street ; 
and  Methodists,  who  openly  boasted  that  their  place 
of  worship  was  farther  down,  quite  in  the  center  of 
things,  not  unlike,  so  they  declared,  the  relative  po- 
sition of  their  denomination  in  the  world's  affairs. 

Among  the  latter,  John  Sumner  had  long  been  an 
acknowledged  leader.  He  had  been  for  years  a  "local 
preacher,"  and  the  shelves  of  a  certain  book-case  liter- 
ally "spoke  volumes"  concerning  the  zeal  with  which 
he  had  studied  the  Fathers.  On  these  shelves,  in  ad- 
dition to  the  usual  Commentaries,  there  were  histories 
\)i  his  Church  and  of  its  leaders  and  its  doctrines.  Each 
book  had  been  bought  for  a  purpose,  and  had  become  a 
part  of  the  owner's  mental  self.  Armed  with  this 
knowledge,  his  Bible,  his  "Discipline,"  and  his  Church 
paper,  he  considered  himself  ready — as  indeed  he  was — 
for  any  denominational  enemy  that  might  stray  his 
way.  Nor  did  he  think  it  beneath  his  dignity  to  lure 
the  unsuspecting  holder  of  a  different  tenet  into  an 
"argument"  which  was  very  apt  to  result  in  the  latter's 
discomfiture. 

Politically,  he  was  known  far  and  near  as  an  ardent 
Abolitionist.  The  village  was  not  far  from  the  Ohio 
River,  and  during  the  decade  preceding  the  "sixties," 
Aunt  Lucy,  had  she  chosen,  might  have  told  of  more 
than  one  fugitive  warmed,  fed,  and  helped  on  in  his 
24 


THE  OLD  MAN  WITH  THE  GRAY  HAIR 

Northward  flight.  Herein,  it  was  thought,  lay  the 
clue  to  his  unexpected  interest  in  the  dead  soldier's 
baby  girl.  Indeed  this  might  have  been,  for  to  none  in 
the  early  days  of  the  nation's  peril  was  increasing  age 
more  unwelcome  than  to  the  once  sturdy  John  Sumner, 
who,  since  his  early  manhood,  had  never  been  without 
strong  convictions  on  matters  both  of  Church  and 
State — convictions  he  had  ever  stood  ready  to  defend. 

He  had  been  quick  to  respond  to  the  first  "call  to 
arms,"  only  to  receive  the  unwelcome  verdict,  "re- 
jected." After  the  first  flush  of  disappointment  he 
began  to  urge  younger  men  to  enlist,  and  the  "Store'' 
became  practically  a  recruiting  point.  Its  prqprietoi, 
with  a  consistency  not  always  seen,  took  upon  himself 
the  position  of  "friend"  to  the  soldier's  wife  or  child. 

This,  without  doubt,  had  been  a  potent  factor  in 
Dorothy's  transplanting.  But,  though  little  suspected, 
there  had  been  another,  and  that  her  own  little  self. 
No  neighborhood  fact  was  better  known  than  was 
"Uncle  John's"  aversion  to  children.  So,  when  the 
average  child  came  into  his  presence,  it  did  so  very 
much  abashed. 

Not  so  Dorothy.  Once,  in  the  old  happy  time, 
"the  tall  man"  had  perched  her  upon  the  counter  while 
he  made  a  purchase,  and  she,  spying  some  sweets  in  a 
jar,  stretched  out  her  chubby  little  hands,  lisping  coax- 
ingly,  "Good  man,  love  baby,  give,"  and  to  the  surprise 
of  those  who  watched,  the  "good  man"  obeyed,  hold- 
ing the  jar  while  baby  fingers  crept  in  on  the  sweet 
errand. 

Who  shall  say  that,  in  some  inexplicable  way — so 

25 


DOROTHY 

little  do  we  understand  the  laws  of  memory  and  asso- 
ciation— at  that  moment  some  more  than  half-forgotten 
spring  was  touched,  and  the  confiding  child  personified 
a  far-away,  forgotten  dream  of  the  old  man's  youth. 

The  sympathy  of  the  community  had  gone  out  with- 
out stint  to  the  mother  and  child  at  news  of  the  father's 
death.  Later  it  had  gathered  at  the  open  grave  of  the 
young  mother,  wondering  amid  its  tears  what  would 
become  of  the  child.  It  had  yet  to  learn  that,  on  the 
morning  of  the  burial,  "Uncle  John"  had,  without 
waste  of  words,  said  to  his  wife,  "We  must  take  her, 
there  is  no  other  way."  And  this  seemed  true.  If  that 
good  woman  were  greatly  dismayed  at  the  responsibility 
so  suddenly  thrust  upon  her,  none  were  the  wiser,  it 
being  the  foundation  stone  of  her  wifely  creed,  what- 
ever the  domestic  trial,  "to  never  let  on  to  the  public." 

Indeed  she  had  scarcely  "let  on"  to  herself  that  at 
times  the  big  house  was  very  lonely,  and  that,  when 
everything  was  "done  up"  and  there  was  no  sound  save 
that  of  "Daniel  Webster's"  contented  purr,  as  he 
blinked  in  his  own  cushioned  chair,  her  thoughts  often 
kept  time  to  the  click  of  her  needles,  with  the  ever- 
recurring  yet  ever-unfinished  sentence,  "Yes,  the  house 
is  large  and  there  are  many  homeless  children; — but 
then—" 

So  perhaps,  after  all,  that  Providence  which  cares 
for  the  sparrows  had  not  greatly  misplaced  Dorothy. 
But  alas,  poor  baby !  there  were  nights  when,  to  quote 
Aunt  Lucy,  "the  child  took  spells  of  crying  for  her 
ma,  when  the  most  persistent  attempts  at  "mothering" 
availed  nothing.  At  such  times,  with  a  stoicism  a  Spar- 
26 


THE  OLD  MAN  WITH  THE  GRAY  HAIR 

tan  mother  might  have  envied,  Aunt  Lucy  would  leave 
the  room,  saying,  "Cry  it  out,  'twill  do  you  good," 
and  the  little  one  would  sob  until  merciful  sleep  inter- 
posed. 

Clearly,  nevermore  would  Dorothy  be  cuddled  in 
soft  arms  nor  crooned  to  sleep  with  loving  lullabies. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

• 

DOROTHY'S  CHILDHOOD 

ONE  is  perplexed  at  times  to  decide  whether  or  not 
Time,  that  prolific  subject  of  essays,  poems,  and  ser- 
mons, is  not,  after  all,  a  trifle  rude,  in  that  he  hurries  so. 

There  is  not  a  hint  about  him  of  that  "leisurely 
calm"  which  is  held  up  for  our  admiration.  He  does 
not  pause  for  our  griefs;  he  will  not  linger  for  our 
joys ;  while  if  an  individual,  overtaken  with  a  triumph, 
stops  but  for  an  instant  to  dally  with  it,  this  inexorable 
master  affixes  to  his  joy  the  ominous  words  "short- 
lived." 

But  if  there  is  a  time  in  life  when  he  seems  in  a 
particular  hurry,  it  is  in  childhood.  Hardly  has  he 
smoothed  the  wrinkles  in  the  baby's  face  until  he  be- 
gins, "with  his  ever-ready  tools  of  care  and  responsi- 
bility, to  write  in  the  more  indelible  ones  of  age." 

It  is  not  surprising,  therefore,  that  Dorothy  soon 
dried  her  tears  and  emerged  into,  if  not  a  tenderly 
loved,  at  least  a  well-cared-for  childhood,  and  that 
gradually,  as  we  have  seen,  the  "sweet  face"  and  the 
dear  "tall  man"  became  only  misty  memories. 

She  grew  to  love  best  the  warm,  roomy  kitchen, 
the  scene  of  most  of  Aunt  Lucy's  work.  As  she  tod- 
dled about  amusing  herself,  she  quite  won  that  model 
housekeeper's  heart  by  not  bothering  her  overmuch, 
28 


DOROTHY'S  CHILDHOOD 

and  by  treating  with  proper  deference  her  special  pride, 
"Daniel  Webster."  Daniel  was  accustomed  to  sun 
himself  on  the  broad  window-sill  or  doze  among  the 
cushions,  while  the  less  patrician  "Mrs.  Webster"  did 
her  duties  as  a  mouser,  or  looked  after  the  interests  of 
her  series  of  frolicsome  families.  These  last  were  a 
never-ending  source  of  pleasure  to  Dorothy,  who  hap- 
pily preferred  them  to  the  more  complacent  "Daniel." 

Nor  is  it  surprising — remembering  "Time's"  habit 
of  hurrying — that  one  day  the  garden  gate  clicked  be- 
hind a  quaint  little  figure  on  its  way  to  the  village 
school. 

A  check  apron  quite  covered  the  "stuff"  dress  the 
little  one  wore,  but  did  not  in  anywise  interfere  with 
the  mission  of  sundry  ruffles  and  tucks  that,  as  the 
"finish"  of  the  snowy  pantalettes,  were  made  "for 
show." 

Faithful  rummaging  in  this  house,  where  nothing 
was  ever  lost,  had  brought  to  light  a  slate  worn  smooth 
by  use.  This,  with  the  inevitable  "blue-back  spelling- 
book,"  composed  the  little  student's  outfit. 

It  is  always  said  of  those  individuals  privileged  to 
ride  upon  the  "magical  carpet,"  or  who  underwent  any 
of  the  other  surprising  experiences  recorded  in  tales  of 
magic,  that  they  invariably  "rubbed  their  eyes."  Not 
less  so  did  the  friends  of  the  little  girl;  for  never  did 
bud  unfold  more  quickly  when  kissed  by  the  morning 
dew  than  did  she  respond  to  the  new  life. 

The  surprise  and  delight  of  this  unfolding  so 
touched  "the  old  man  with  the  gray  hair"  that  his  heart 
began  to  thrill  with  the  pride  of  possession,  and  the 
29 


DOROTHY 

neighbors  smiled  as  the  phrase  "my  little  girl"  began 
to  fall  from  his  lips  with  wonderful  frequency. 

Dickens  has  Pip  mournfully  tell  us,  in  "Great 
Expectations,"  how  the  great  Pumblechook  was  apt  to 
keep  up  a  running  fire  during  the  entire  breakfast  of 
"Seven  times  nine,  boy?"  or  "Hi,  there!  quick!  Nine 
times  eight."  A  similar  fate  befell  Dorothy;  for  when 
it  was  reported  to  "Uncle  John"  that  she  could  do 
"sums,"  he  at  once  felt  it  to  be  his  duty  to  sound  her 
to  the  depths.  So  he  demanded  information  on  several 
points,  one  being,  "If  Aunt  Polly  Perkins  should  bring 
in  two  and  a  half  pounds  of  butter,  how  much  coffee 
should  she  receive  in  return?"  Purnblechook-like  add- 
ing* "Quick  now!"  And  when  Dorothy  floundered, 
and  wanted  to  know  first  the  prices  of  the  butter  and 
coffee,  he  sniffed  at  her  most  unmercifully,  and  told  her 
it  was  a  poor  storekeeper  indeed  who  didn't  know 
such  trifles. 

But  the  child  and  the  man  understood  each  other. 

On  "preaching  Sundays"  they  went  together  to 
church.  Sometimes  Aunt  Lucy  made  one  of  the  little 
party.  Oftener  she  was  kept  at  home  by  the  dinner, 
or  rather  by  the  "preacher's  dinner,"  for  it  was  well 
understood  that  the  latter's  "outer  man"  must  be  well 
refreshed  before  he  journeyed  on  to  the  next  appoint- 
ment. 

Uncle  John  sat  in  the  "Amen  Corner."  It  would 
have  been  a  breach  of  village  decorum  had  Dorothy 
been  by  his  side.  So  she  compromised  by  snuggling 
into  the  woman's  side  opposite.  Here  she  sat  conscious 
of  a  certain  awesome  pride,  as  "Uncle  John"  started  the 

30 


DOROTHY'S  CHILDHOOD 

"tunes,"  or  led  in  a  prayer  of  unexampled  fervor,  to 
say  nothing  of  length. 

During  the  sermon  she  listened,  not  only  with  the 
gravity  of  a  worshiper,  but  with  something  of  the  air 
of  a  connoisseur ;  for  the  little  maiden's  theological  edu- 
cation had  not  been  neglected,  as  we  shall  presently  see. 

On  alternate  Sabbaths  the  strangely  assorted  pair 
went  to  class-meeting.  That  is,  Uncle  John  went,  and 
Dorothy  always  pleaded  to  accompany  him.  She  was 
usually  the  only  child  in  the  little  gathering.  But  she 
was  also  the  only  child  in  the  great  house,  so  that  trifle 
did  not  matter ;  besides,  she  was  breathing  daily  a  home 
atmosphere  which  made  much  of  "Christian  experi- 
ence." Therefore  it  seemed  quite  the  proper  thing  to 
meet  at  stated  times  and  inquire  anxiously  into  each 
one's  own  particular  state  of  grace. 

She  listened  with  the  utmost  interest  to  the  "testi- 
monies," and  with  no  thought  of  irreverence  learned 
to  watch  for  the  set  phrases  into  which  the  worshipers 
had  unconsciously  fallen.  For  instance,  there  was  a 
sister  who,  amid  her  tears,  never  failed  to  express  her 
confident  hope  that  "she  would  one  day  clasp  glad 
hands  with  each  one  present  on  the  sunny  banks  of 
bright  deliverance,"  and  a  tall  brother  who,  with  a 
swaying  motion  to  suit  his  words,  hoped  "that  when 
he  fell,  he  would  fall  his  full  length  heavenward." 
This  last  Dorothy  interpreted  literally,  and  mentally 
contrasted  his  advantages  over  others  not  so  well 
favored. 

Then,  there  were  the  long  Sunday  afternoons,  when 
the  great  house,  from  the  farthest  away  bedroom  down 

31 


DOROTHY 

to  the  sunny,  big  kitchen,  seemed  under  the  spell  of  a 
hallowed  quiet. 

Aunt  Lucy,  who  could  on  this  day  conscientiously 
rest,  usually  sat  dozing  in  her  own  rocker,  her  feet 
resting  comfortably  upon  a  patchwork  stool. 

These  were  happy  hours  for  the  old  man  and  the 
child.  For  many  a  day  before  the  advent  of  the  "Pro- 
fessor" and  the  embryo  "Seminary"  she  had  served  as 
the  "missing  link"  between  the  old  man's  failing  eye- 
sight and  his  favorite  Church  paper. 

On  these  afternoons  it  became  her  duty  to  read  this 
aloud,  beginning  with  the  obituaries,  not  skipping  the 
"wisest"  of  the  editorials,  nor  yet  the  (otherwise) 
"articles"  upon  various  phases  of  Church  polity,  to  be, 
or  not  to  be. 

This  was  not  wholly  a  perfunctory  task;  for  not  a 
few  of  these  same  mooted  questions  were  often  dis- 
cussed in  the  "Store,"  where  the  same  little  company 
that  attended  class-meeting  settled  them  quite  to  their 
own  satisfaction,  while  perhaps  an  occasional  "Bap- 
tist" or  "worldling"  furnished  the  spice  in  the  way  of 
an  awkward  question  or  an  apt  bit  of  repartee. 

After  this  "duty"  reading,  there  was  yet  time.  In 
some  way  there  had  crept  in  among  the  doctrinal  treas- 
ures a  stray  copy  of  Irving's  "Sketchbook,"  also  one 
of  his  "Bracebridge  Hall,"  and  a  much  worn  copy  of 
"David  Copperfield."  There  was  a  wooden  "settee" 
in  Dorothy's  own  room,  and,  great  wonder!  a  small 
fireplace,  built  into  the  same  chimney  which  furnished 
the  larger  one  below. 

To  draw  the  "settee"  before  the  glowing  fire,  to 
32 


DOROTHY'S  CHILDHOOD 

adjust  the  fancifully  dyed  sheepskin  (in  lieu  of  the 
modern  many  pillows),  and  to  read,  again  and  again, 
of  "Ichabod  Crane,"  whose  elbows  were  "as  the  joints 
of  a  grasshopper;"  to  journey  with  the  "Traveler"  into 
rural  England;  to  take  part  in  the  simple  merry-mak- 
ings he  so  aptly  described, — all  this  was  bliss.  Nature 
might  place  outside  her  embargo  of  mud  and  of  snow, 
it  mattered  not ;  for  the  young  girl  there  were  yet  other 
worlds. 


33 


CHAPTER  V 
THE  STRANGERS  AND  DOROTHY 

ALTHOUGH  the  invalid  stranger  and  his  wife,  whose 
coming  had  been  of  such  moment  to  the  villagers, 
doubtless  found  in  the  returning  strength  of  the  one 
ample  recompense  for  the  isolation  of  their  new  life, 
yet,  especially  in  the  first  few  months,  when  loneliness 
pressed  heavily,  each  might  have  echoed  the  plaint  of 
Aunt  Violet,  who  confessed  to  the  "Missus,"  "  'Pears 
like,  honey,  I  'se  got  a  misery  all  de  time  right  heah," 
laying  her  hand  over  her  heart.  "  'Co'se  I  knows  its 
all  right  for  us  to  be  heah,  specially  if  Marsa  Professah 
gets  well,  and  I  knows  de  old  home  is  gone,  but  O, 
Mis'  Milicent,  your  old  mammy  is  sick  for  some  of 
ouah  own  folks,  and  some  of  ouah  big  goin's  on." 

Heart-hunger  for  our  own  folks!  It  Was  not  hard 
for  either  to  understand  the  faithful  serrant  on  that 
point. 

Aunt  Violet  had  further  troubles.  She  could  not 
satisfactorily  settle  the  social  status  of  the  villagers. 
She  could  glide  quietly  into  their  church  and  worship 
her  God  and  theirs ;  but  once  outside,  like  many  another 
of  lighter  hue,  she  was  troubled  along  social  lines. 

"Now,  if  dey  is  poah  white  folks," — her  lips  curled 
in  true  aristocratic  scorn :  she  would  have  known  what 
to  do  in  such  a  case — "but  no,  dey  is  not  dem,"  her 
quick  eye  settled  that ;  "but  what  is  dey  ?  Dey  's  none 

34 


THE  STRANGERS  AND  DOROTHY 

of  ouah  folks — sho!"  "Our  folks"  being  the  compre- 
hensive term,  which  included  the  families  of  the  neigh- 
boring plantations,  whose  frequent  visits  had  been  the 
occasions  of  the  "big  goin's  on"  for  which  she  longed. 

It  was  the  Professor — of  whose  learning  she  stood 
greatly  in  awe — who  ventured  on  an  explanation. 
"Auntie,"  he  said,  "God's  world  is  wide  and  His  people 
many.  They  live  under  different  environments  and 
conditions.  But  to  all  their  Father  has  given  their  own 
particular  round  of  duties,  the  kind  matters  little.  He, 
loving  all  His  children,  has  graciously  planned  that  the 
individual  who  accepts  these  duties,  and  gives  to  them 
his  best  self,  is  able  to  leave  the  world  a  little  better 
than  he  found  it."  Then  he  added,  a  bit  wearily,  "And 
none  of  us,  however  well  favored,  can  hope  to  do  much 
more." 

"The  Southern  gentleman,  so  dear  to  your  heart," 
he  continued,  "is  but  one  of  many  types,  not  better 
loved  by  the  Father,  I  feel  sure,  than  were  some  God- 
fearing and  God-serving  fisher-folk  I  once  wintered 
with  on  an  island  off  the  coast  of  England,  whose  lives 
of  sacrifice  I  yet  love  to  recall;  and  Violet,  not  better 
loved  than  are  these  kindly  people  about  us,  who,  after 
their  own  fashion,  have  taken  a  family  of  strangers 
to  their  hearts." 

Perhaps  Aunt  Violet  was  more  mystified  than  con- 
vinced ;  at  any  rate  she  was  silenced. 

A  comforting  doctrine,  this,  of  the  "Brotherhood 
of  the  Race;"  but  sometimes  the  lips  that  uttered  it 
would  tremble  as  they  framed  the  words,  "If  I  were 
only  strong  again!"  and  the  eyes  would  be  turned  to 

35 


DOROTHY 

pierce,  if  possible,  that  distance  that  shut  out  "his 
world." 

Into  this  loneliness  came  Dorothy, — "Little  Dor- 
othy," they  grew  to  call  her. 

The  Williamsons,  in  the  first  days  of  their  coming, 
had  christened  their  new  home  "The  Beeches."  This 
in  honor  of  the  great  beech-trees  which  almost  hid  the 
plain  house  from  view,  and  whose  outspreading  limbs 
made  a  delightful  canopy,  that  not  only  shut  out  the 
sun's  heat,  but  afforded  protection  from  straying  winds. 
They  had  fashioned  a  rustic  seat  or  two  under  the  trees, 
and  finally  added  a  table,  convenient  alike  for  the  in- 
evitable books  or  the  bit  of  work  with  which  the  young 
wife  pretended  to  busy  herself. 

Here  the  invalid  rested  or  read,  as  suited  his  incli- 
nation ;  each  succeeding  day  seeing  his  feet  more  surely 
established  upon  the  return  journey  to  health. 

At  the  instant  of  Dorothy's  first  coming  he  had  just 
laid  down  a  worn  copy  of  "The  Lady  of  the  Lake" 
(from  which  he  had  been  reading  aloud),  to  receive 
from  the  respectful  hands  of  Aunt  Violet  a  saucer 
heaped  with  freshly  gathered  dewberries  (properly 
sugared  and  creamed)  that  she  had  found  ripening  on 
some  low  trailing  vines  in  a  meadow  back  of  the  house, 
when  a  young  girl  stepped  out  from  the  woodland  path, 
and  came  rapidly  up  their  own  gravel  walk. 

Though  this  was  her  first  visit,  each  recognized  her 
as  Dorothy  Sumner,  whom  Aunt  Violet  had  once  char- 
acterized as  "dat  slip  of  a  girl  dat  's  always  at  church, 
no  mattah  what,  long  side  o'  dat  old  man  with  de 
gray  haah." 

36 


THE  STRANGERS  AND  DOROTHY 

A  word  revealed  her  errand.  She  had  brought 
from  Aunt  Lucy  a  little  offering  for  the  invalid. 

The  spotless  cloth  covered  a  bowl  (Aunt  Violet 
approvingly  noted  that  it  was  of  "real  china")  filled 
with  still-steaming  chicken-broth,  prepared  with  a  skill 
a  trained  nurse  might  envy.  In  it  lay  a  piece  of  chicken 
done  to  absolute  tenderness.  Besides  this,  a  small 
saucer  held  a  quivering  mold  of  beautifully  clear  cur- 
rant-jelly, these  to  tempt  a  jaded  appetite.  Besides,  a 
plate  held  a  still  further  offering,  which  Dorothy  had 
been  instructed  to  say,  "Aunt  Lucy  hoped  the  others 
would  enjoy." 

It  was  the  first  dewberry  pie  of  the  season,  and  was 
a  perfect  specimen  of  the  culinary  art  when  it  takes  to 
itself  the  form  of  a  pie ;  for  it  was  a  neighborhood  tra- 
dition, that  no  soggy  undercrusts  ever  came  out  of 
Aunt  Lucy's  oven;  for  with  her  no  miscalculation 
could  occur  as  to  the  proper  amount  of  sugar  or  of 
juice.  As  for  the  upper  crust,  its  maker  would  have 
bowed  her  head  in  shame  had  it  been,  when  done,  other 
than  crisp,  flaky,  and  of  a  uniform  creamy  brown  in 
color. 

It  was  such  a  "production"  as  one  might  enjoy, 
and,  in  the  afterglow  of  satisfaction,  feel  at  peace  with 
the  world.  Even  Aunt  Violet,  when  she  tested  it  in  the 
privacy  of  her  kitchen,  yielded  her  homage  to  "dese 
heah  queer  folks,"  who  is,  and  yet  who  is  not,  quality. 

Dorothy's  walk  had  been  a  brisk  one,  and  she  was 
quite  ready  to  take  a  proffered  seat  under  the  shadow 
of  the  trees.  As  she  did  so,  her  eyes  fell,  and  dwelt 
hungrily  on  the  little  book  from  which  "the  Professor" 

37 


DOROTHY 

had  been  reading.  Observing  this,  the  whim  seized 
him  to  continue.  Before  the  interruption  he  had  been 
approaching  that  rare  bit  of  description  where  Fitz 
James  is  being  safely  conducted  to  "Coilantogle  Ford," 
not  suspecting  his  Gaelic  guide  to  be  his  enemy,  the 
clansman  chieftain.  Into  the  melodramatic  arguments 
of  these  two,  as  they  journeyed,  the  reader  threw  all  the 
magic  of  his  intonations,  watching  covertly,  as  he  read, 
the  rarely  appreciative  face  of  the  young  girl.  As  he 
reached  the  lines, — 

1 '  Instant  through  copse  and  heath  arose 
Bonnets  and  spears,  and  bended  bows, 
On  right  and  left,  above,  below, 
Sprung  up  at  once  the  lurking  foe,"-— 

her  interest  seemed  intense.  To  test  which,  though  it 
seemed  cruel,  he  laid  the  book  down  as  if  wearied. 
"Her  eyes  showed  her  disappointment.  Seeing  this,  Mrs. 
Williamson  took  up  the  copy,  and,  handing  it  to  her, 
said,  "Perhaps  if  you  have  not  read  it  before,  you 
would  like  to  finish  the  poem." 

That  was  the  beginning.  Perhaps  it  was  well  for 
Dorothy  that  her  quiet  Sunday  afternoon  with  Uncle 
John  and  his  leather-bound  doctrinal  expounders  had 
come  first.  It  is  barely  possible  that,  as  henceforth  she 
was  to  browse  at  will  in  literary  pastures  rich  and  new, 
these  fundamentals  might  have  been  neglected. 

The  strangers  had  not  failed  to  bring  with  them 
the  greater  part  of  their  library,  and  to  them  the  young 
girl,  in  her  eagerness,  seemed  a  bit  of  plastic  clay  whose 
fashioning  would  be  a  delight;  and  so  it  became  their 

38 


THE  STRANGERS  AND  DOROTHY 

pleasure  to  select  for  her,  first  one  and  then  another  of 
their  treasures,  and  watch  her  rare  pleasure  as  she  read. 

The  naturalist  may  watch  the  unfolding  of  a  chrys- 
alis with  the  keenest  interest  and  delight.  So  may  the 
unfolding  of  a  child  awaken  as  little  real  sentiment. 

The  Williamsons  were  at  first  conscious  of  no  other 
feeling  for  Dorothy  save  that  her  bright,  cheery  ways 
and  unexpected  appreciation  of  their  books  added  a 
charm  and  supplied  a  new  interest  to  their  isolated  lives. 

But  as  they  came  to  know  her  better,  they  were 
touched  by  her  loneliness,  a  loneliness  of  which  she  was 
herself  hardly  conscious.  Then,  as  bits  of  her  baby- 
hood story  came  to  them,  she  crept  yet  closer  into  their 
hearts;  finally,  as  the  young  wife  looked  upon  the 
slender,  motherless  girl,  her  thoughts,  without  will  of 
her  own,  turned  the  more  often  to  a  certain  myrtle- 
covered  spot  in  the  Southland.  Less  than  a  year  before, 
they  had  laid  there  a  tiny  baby  girl  who  had  nestled  in 
her  arms  for  but  a  day,  but  quite  long  enough  to  leave 
them,  forever  after,  empty,  and  to  give  to  the  mother 
heart  a  new  tenderness ;  long  enough,  too,  for  the  father 
to  whisper:  "If  you  do  not  mind,  dear,  we  will  call 
her  Dorothy ;  my  mother's  name,  you  know.  She  died 
when  I  was  but  a  lad." 

There  was  certainly  no  connection  between  these 
two.  Nevertheless,  the  childless  young  mother  grew  to 
listen  for  a  quick  step  on  the  gravel,  and  to  brighten 
when  a  blithe  voice  called  out  a  loving  greeting. 

It  was  this  same  unconscious  yearning  that  had 
caused  the  "Professor"  to  yield  so  readily  to  the  project 
of  the  "school." 

39 


DOROTHY 

He  was  growing  stronger.  Should  he  not  do  his 
best  for  this  Dorothy  who  had  so  little  ?  For  the  sake 
of  that  other,  who,  could  she  have  staid,  would  have 
had  so  much  ? 

The  summer  following  the  arrival  of  the  strangers 
was  a  wonderfully  happy  one  to  the  young  girl,  each 
week  of  which  brought  her  into  a  closer  intimacy  with 
her  new  friends,  and  opened  for  her  a  world  of  which 
she  had  never  dreamed. 

Sometimes,  as  Aunt  Violet  watched  her  disappear 
in  the  shadows  of  a  woodland  that  stretched  between 
"the  Beeches"  and  the  village,  she  was  apt  to  follow 
her  long  and  earnestly  with  her  eyes;  then,  if  there 
was  one  by  to  hear,  she  would  remark,  "  'Pears  like  dat 
chile  is  getting  to  be  mighty  nigh  like  ouah  own  folks." 

But  "de  chile"  was  happily  unconscious  of  these 
various  perturbations.  The  flower  does  not  question 
when  shower  and  sunshine  bid  it  unfold;  neither  did 
she  her  new-found  happiness.  She  would  not  have 
dared,  though,  to  confess  half  the  day-dreams  she 
began  to  cherish  when  the  matter  of  the  school  was 
finally  settled.  Nor  could  she  have  defined  that  strange 
something  which  whispered  in  her  ear  that,  with  its 
opening,  all  things  were  henceforth,  for  her,  to  be  new. 
And  they  were. 


40 


CHAPTER  VI. 
AN  AWAKENING  TOUCH 

THE  "Seminary"  was,  from  the  first,  preordained 
to  success,  as  is  any  enterprise  which  fills  a  felt  want 
or  is  able  to  create  a  new  one. 

The  "Professor,"  though  he  did  not  suspect  it,  had 
received  a  double  welcome.  This  had  happened  on  this 
wise.  Winfield  County,  in  which  the  village  of  Mid- 
dletown  lay,  knew  two  distinct  types  of  inhabitants. 
It  had  been  originally  settled  by  New  Englanders, 
who  had  been  lured  westward  by  the  richer  lands  of 
the  State.  These  had  brought  with  them  their  strong 
religious  and  political  convictions,  as  well  as  their  habits 
of  thrift. 

There  had  been,  besides,  during  the  years  a  large 
contingent  of  settlers  from  Kentucky  and  States 
still  farther  south.  These  had  not  thought  it  neces- 
sary to  leave  their  easier  notions  of  life  behind,  nor  to 
drop  their  habitual  contempt  for  everything  not  "South- 
ern" into  the  Ohio,  while  crossing. 

It  is  a  matter  of  history  that,  during  the  War  of 
the  Rebellion,  among  all  the  States  of  the  Union,  none 
were  more  rocked  by  fratricidal  strife  than  was  Indiana. 
So  much  does  history  wTrite;  but  it  can  make  no  men- 
tion of  individual  hatreds,  nor  yet  of  local  strifes, 
which  turned  peaceful  neighborhoods  into  brawling 
seats  of  wordy  war. 

41 


DOROTHY 

This  condition  of  affairs  had  been  particularly  bit- 
ter in  this  neighborhood  of  distinct  types.  Though  the 
war  had  been  over  nearly  a  decade,  there  was  as  yet 
no  hint  of  a  peaceful  blending. 

There  was,  however,  a  single  point  in  common,  a 
"mind-hunger,"  born  of  that  "wider  vision"  that  had 
come  in  the  wake  of  smoke-cleared  battlefields.  Hence 
the  eagerness  for  the  school  and  the  hearty  welcome 
the  Professor's  modest  and  kindly  demeanor  had  called 
forth.  They  of  New  England  recognized  in  him  a 
gentleman  whose  culture  was  cosmopolitan,  while  those 
of  Blue  Grass  ancestry  took  him  and  his  to  their  hearts 
and  loved  them;  and  as  the  young  people  of  opposing 
factions  met  in  the  school  with  the  high-sounding  name, 
they  met,  for  the  first  time  in  neighborhood  history, 
upon  a  friendly  footing. 

Though  a  state  of  "mind-hunger"  has  been  con- 
fessed, this  does  not  imply  ignorance.  No  well-favored 
little  corner  of  New  England  was  ever  more  intel- 
lectually alive  than  was  this,  into  which  the  strangers 
had  happened. 

As  a  community  they  were  intensely  religious,  each 
family  giving  its  allegiance  to  one  of  the  two  denomi- 
nations already  mentioned;  each  individual,  besides, 
holding  it  to  be  his  "bounden  duty"  to  be  able  at  any 
moment  to  give  a  reason  for  his  particular  faith.  The 
present  has  no  conception  of  the  exhilaration  a  past 
generation  received  from  mere  "argument;"  especially 
if  the  debated  subjects  were  of  Scriptural  origin. 
Many  topics  now  relegated  to  the  studies  of  scholars 
were  once  vital  among  the  people.  If,  for  instance,  a 
42 


AN  AWAKENING  TOUCH 

group  of  men  sat  waiting  for  their  "grist"  at  the  mill 
(a  weekly  occurrence),  they  might  gravely  discuss  the 
"condition  of  the  dead  before  the  judgment,"  or  recite 
the  arguments  favoring  the  "recognition  of  friends  in 
heaven,"  and,  if  all  other  subjects  failed  to  interest, 
they  were  very  liable  at  any  moment  to  forget  the  plain 
command,  "Love  one  another,"  in  their  zeal  as  to  the 
proper  mode  of  baptism. 

All  this  implied  a  study  of  authorities,  lest  unhap- 
pily one  be  forced  to  retire  in  forensic  disgrace  from 
the  field,  and  no  home  was  so  poor  that  it  did  not  hold 
sundry  heavy  leather-bound  volumes,  which  cham- 
pioned the  owner's  particular  faith.  These  testified  to 
frequent  use. 

So  possioly  never  had  school  a  better  foundation. 

Much  difficulty  arose  from  transforming  a  church, 
small  at  best,  into  a  schoolroom.  This  increased  when 
the  preacher  in  charge,  having  finished  up  at  another 
point,  came  to  hold  his  duly  announced  "protracted 
meeting."  Which  last,  because  of  results  following,  de- 
mands attention. 

It  was  full  midwinter  before  it  began.  The  Janu- 
ary thaw  had  worked  its  own  sweet  will  on  the  country 
roads.  The  nights  were  dark  and  stormy;  outside  the 
winds  wailed  as  if  for  the  sins  of  the  world.  Snow 
beat  at  times  in  the  faces  of  the  faithful  few,  who,  night 
after  night,  with  lanterns  in  hand,  groped  their  way  to 
the  little  church,  where  the  exercises  consisted  of  be- 
seeching prayers,  doctrinal  songs,  and  fervid  exhorta- 
tions. 

43 


DOROTHY 

On  a  certain  evening  the  preacher  had  called  the 
faithful  about  the  altar.  Some  one  was  praying,  when 
suddenly  the  miracle  of  the  walk  to  Emmaus  was  re- 
peated, and  one  said  to  another,  "Surely  our  hearts  do 
burn  within  us."  Thanksgivings  at  once  arose,  in  that 
the  prayed-for  "revival"  was  at  hand. 

There  were  certain  young  people  who  had  gone  aim- 
lessly to  the  meeting.  These  were  borne  forward  to  the 
altar  on  the  wave  of  enthusiasm.  In  an  instant  "con- 
viction" had  seized  each.  This  was  deepened  by  the 
prayer  of  the  preacher,  who,  kneeling  near  them,  in  an 
awesome  tone  catalogued  the  personal  sins  of  each,  be- 
seeching Him,  whose  province  it  was  to  have  mercy, 
to  save  them  from  His  wrath.  In  this  prayer  the  peni- 
tents joined  in  all  sincerity. 

Afterwards,  the  really  sweet,  trembling  voice  of 
"Uncle  John  Sumner"  arose,  announcing  in  song: 

"  My  God  is  reconciled  ; 

His  pardoning  voice  I  hear 
He  owns  me  for  His  child  ; 
I  can  no  longer  fear." 

Finally,  as  the  "seekers"  each  grasped  this  truth 
personally,  they  arose  one  by  one,  "comforted."  The 
news  soon  spread,  and,  as  a  result,  heavy  farm-wagons, 
whose  wheels  sank  quite  to  the  hub  in  the  mud  through 
which  they  made  their  way,  drew  up  each  night,  and 
unloaded  whole  families  at  the  door  of  the  church. 

A  word  at  this  point  concerning  the  "preacher" 
may  not  be  amiss.  Although  not  old,  he  seemed,  in  the 

44 


AN  AWAKENING  TOUCH 

seriousness  that  was  his,  to  have  forever  parted  with 
youth.  He  had  no  family  ties,  and,  sometimes  as  he 
rode  away,  the  mother  hearts  in  his  congregation 
watched  him  with  pity,  he  seemed  so  alone.  There  was 
a  vague  rumor  that,  in  still  earlier  manhood,  he  had  had 
a  wife,  and  perhaps  a  child ;  but  these  were  matters  of 
which  he  never  spoke.  He  gave  no  one  cause  to  sus- 
pect that  he  had  ever  cherished  ambitions  other  than 
to  preach  the  gospel  where  it  was  most  needed.  In  that 
light  his  present  charge  was  an  inviting  field. 

He  believed  with  all  his  soul  in  a  "judgment  to 
come"  and  in  the  punishment  of  the  wicked,  whether 
in  or  out  of  the  Church,  who  die  in  their  sins.  He  con- 
ceived the  Scriptures  to  be  perfectly  plain  as  to  the 
method  of  that  punishment.  He  therefore  proceeded 
to  consjgn  them  to  that  "outer  darkness"  in  language 
so  vivid  that  his  hearers  caught  the  echo  of  the  "weep- 
ing," and  shivered  at  the  "gnashing  of  teeth." 

A  well-defined  belief,  which  knows  no  mental  reser- 
vation, is  always  a  source  of  strength  to  its  possessor. 
In  this  respect  the  preacher  was  very  strong.  He  had 
yet  another  distinguishing  trait:  his  preaching  was 
backed  by  a  certain  something,  which  for  lack  of  a 
better  term,  men  have  agreed  to  call  "unction."  The 
effect  of  this  last  was  at  times  overpowering. 

During  the  days  that  followed,  strange  scenes  were 
enacted  about  the  little  altar.  Some,  if  subjected  to 
analysis,  might  be  found  of  the  earth,  earthy.  But 
there  were  others  not  so  easily  disposed  of.  As  an  illus- 
tration, there  was  in  the  neighborhood  a  feud  of  long 
standing,  because  of  which  two  members  of  the  Church 

45 


DOROTHY 

met  on  the  street  or  sat  side  by  side  in  the  church  with- 
out either  recognizing  the  other. 

This  feud  the  preacher  at  once  regarded  as  his  law- 
ful prey,  and  nightly  set  forth  the  enormity  of  the  sin 
of  hate.  Finally  one  of  the  parties  came  to  the  altar. 
Suddenly  in  the  midst  of  a  prayer  he  fell  as  if  dead. 
Neighbors  carried  the  body  and  laid  it  back  of  the  pul- 
pit, where  it  lay  rigid,  as  if  in  death ;  the  altar  services 
continuing  meanwhile,  without  an  interruption. 

After  a  lapse  of  a  few  hours  the  stricken  man 
opened  his  eyes,  arose,  put  on  his  great  coat,  and  going 
out  of  the  door,  went  down  the  street,  then  across  a 
meadow,  finally  knocking  at  the  door  of  his  enemy. 
What  transpired  at  the  interview  was  never  known, 
but  the  next  evening  the  two  went  to  church  together. 
Together  they  made  their  way  to  the  preacher,  and, 
weeping  as  children  might,  each  gave  him  his  hand. 
The  feud  was  ended. 

The  psychologist  may  easily  explain  the  unconscious 
condition  of  the  stricken  man ;  but  that  love  should  take 
the  place  of  hate,  that  lives  should  be  transformed, 
argues  the  Divine. 

The  young  girl,  Dorothy,  was  of  course  an  inter- 
ested witness  of  all  that  was  happening.  Presently  she 
began  to  experience  a  little  soul-discomfort  of  her  own, 
and  a  certain  night  found  her  kneeling  at  the  little 
crowded  altar. 

At  this  point  a  digression  seems  again  necessary. 
At  a  distance  of  only  a  few  miles  from  the  village 
stretched  a  long  range  of  high  hills,  familiarly  known 

46 


AN  AWAKENING  TOUCH 

as  "The  Knobs."  These  were  covered  with  tall  pines, 
with  here  and  there  heavy  patches  of  undergrowth — 
mostly  hickory  saplings.  Log  cabins,  not  unlike  those 
yet  found  in  the  mountain  regions  of  Kentucky  and 
Tennessee,  were  scattered  throughout  the  hills,  the 
dwellers  in  these  supplementing  the  scant  living  which 
the  few  cleared  acres  afforded  by  cutting  the  saplings 
and  supplying  the  one  village  industry — a  cooper- 
shop — with  hoop-poles.  In  the  blackberry  season  they 
had  yet  another  source  of  revenue,  for  at  the  foot  of  the 
hills  these  berries  ripened  in  profusion,  free  for  the 
picking. 

These  hills,  during  the  closing  years  of  the  war, 
had  received  a  fresh  influx  of  inhabitants.  The  new- 
comers were  known  as  "refugees."  Living  in  the 
South,  yet  sympathizing  with  the  Northern  cause,  they 
had  been  sent  North  for  protection.*  Tall  and  lank, 
they  were  the  typical  Southern  mountaineer,  and  in  no 
quarter,  whether  hill  or  village,  had  they  made  a  favor- 
able impression,  either  as  regards  appearance  or  attain- 
ments. But  whatever  graces  the  strangers  may  have 
lacked,  they  were  fervently  religious.  So,  when  the 
news  of  the  "big  meeting"  reached  their  "fastness," 
they  literally  "flocked"  to  the  little  church,  being  un- 
usually numerous  on  the  evening  that  saw  Dorothy 
at  the  altar.  Each  individual  responding  to  the  preach- 
er's appeals  with  a  fervor  exceeding  his,  the  kneeling 
girl  soon  found  herself  in  the  midst  of  a  din  that  might 
have  presaged  the  judgment-day  itself. 

In  the  midst  of  it  all  she  was  startled  to  receive  a 

*A  historical  fact. 

47 


DOROTHY 

vigorous  pluck,  and  to  hear  a  familiar  voice  whisper 
emphatically:  "Chile,  come  away  from  heah!  Doan 
yo'  mix  yo'self  up  wid  dese  low-down  white  folks. 
Why  ebery  black  on  ole  Marsa's  plantation  done  been 
tole  hollerin'  ain't  religion.  'Course,  sometimes  one  's 
got  to  holler;  but  dese  heah  trash  don't  know  what 
dey  is  doin'.  Come  along;  you  do  n't  belong  heah." 

And  Dorothy  not  quite  understanding  how  she  had 
erred,  arose,  passed  out  of  the  congregation,  and  on 
home. 

"Dorothy,  will  you  stop  a  minute  after  the  school 
is  dismissed?"  It  was  the  Profesor  who,  bending  over 
the  young  girl's  desk,  asked  the  question.  Of  course 
she  lingered.  When  the  last  noisy  footstep  had  died 
away  he  called  her  to  him,  and,  looking  at  her  very 
earnestly,  said,  "You  were  at  the  altar  last  night?" 
A  hot  flush  suffused  the  face;  she  was  recalling  Aunt 
Violet's  displeasure.  For  a  moment  she  faltered ;  then, 
lifting  her  eyes  to  his,  answered  affirmatively,  and 
awaited,  not  without  a  beating  heart,  what  he  might 
say. 

"No  one,"  he  said,  "whether  old  or  young,  ever 
does  a  nobler  or  more  essential  thing  than  when  they 
settle  their  personal  relationship  to  God.  I  have  asked 
you  to  stay  that  we  might  talk  it  over."  By  a  few 
questions  he  drew  from  her  a  confession  of  her  unrest. 
"Dorothy,  you  know  the  plan  of  salvation?"  Yes, 
thanks  to  Uncle  John,  she  knew  nothing  better.  "Then 
you  know  that  the  Savior  died  for  the  one  purpose  of 
bringing  this  gift  to  you,  and,  knowing  our  great  need, 

48 


AN  AWAKENING  TOUCH 

His  anxiety  in  the  matter  must  be  greater  than  is  our 
own,  with  our  limited  knowledge."  This  was  a  new 
thought,  and  Dorothy  was  silent. 

He  continued:  "I  beg  of  you  not  to  think  of  this 
matter,  in  which  your  people  are  now  so  interested,  as 
at  all  mysterious.  This  Savior  is  your  best  Friend. 
There  has  not  been  an  hour  of  your  life  when  He  has 
not  been  at  your  side  to  direct  your  life.  He  only  asks 
that  those  who  would  be  His  children  yield  their  lives 
to  Him,  allowing  Him  to  make  of  them  whatever  He 
will.  Can  not  you  do  this?"  A  low  whispered  ''Yes" 
was  the  answer.  "Then  be  assured  He  receives  you." 

Then  he  of  the  broader  life  laid  his  hand  upon  the 
young  girl's  head,  and  in  a  few  simple  words  com- 
mended her  to  the  keeping  of  Him  "who  slumbereth 
not,"  and  later,  as  the  two,  so  widely  apart  in  much, 
passed  out  of  the  little  room  together,  they  had  this  in 
common :  each  was  an  accepted  child  of  God. 


49 


CHAPTER  VII. 
THE  KNOBS 

AT  the  close  of  the  meeting  the  preacher  led  "Prin- 
cess" out  of  the  warm  and  comfortable  stall  where 
she  had  been  at  leisure  during  the  weeks,  and  soon, 
with  the  comradeship  of  old  friends,  the  two  might 
have  been  seen  picking  their  way  through  the  half- 
frozen  mud  of  the  main  road,  or  following  the  tortuous 
bridle-paths  which  wound  in  and  out  among  clumps 
of  low  bushes. 

"Princess,"  coming  from  her  warm  quarters,  shiv- 
ered in  the  February  chill.  But  at  the  touch  of  the 
master's  hand  upon  the  rein  she  took  one  long  breath 
of  air  into  her  nostrils,  and  then  obediently  settled 
down  to  the  journey  ahead.  The  touch  had  been  inter- 
preted "Go,"  and,  in  some  subtle  way,  the  animal  knew 
that  neither  storm  nor  flood  would  stop  the  going. 

As  for  the  man,  there  was  that  in  the  poise  of  the 
shoulders  that  had  an  obstacle  been  suddenly  personi- 
fied and  stood  before  him,  must  have  compelled  it  to 
turn  and  fly,  as  obstacles  have  a  habit  of  doing  when 
they  encounter  a  will.  Man  and  beast  were  headed  for 
"The  Knobs." 

A  day  or  two  later  the  two  retraced  the  same  road. 
On  the  return  journey  the  reins  lay  loosely  in  the 

So 


THE  KNOBS 

rider's  hands,  and  peace,  rather  than  purpose,  now  sat 
on  the  strong,  thoughtful  face.  Occasionally  a  rarely 
sweet  voice  sang : 

' '  My  heavenly  home  is  bright  and  fair, 
Nor  pain  nor  death  can  enter  there  ; 
Its  glittering  towers  the  sun  outshine: 
That  heavenly  mansion  shall  be  mine." 

Repeating  softly  the  chorus : 

"  I  'm  going  home,  I  'm  going  home, 
I  'm  going  home,  to  die  no  more.' 

The  horse  knew  this  mood  as  she  had  known  the 
other,  and  jogged  along  after  her  own  sweet  will. 
Even  allowing  herself,  at  times,  the  luxury  of  simu- 
lated terror  when  a  belated  and  withered  leaf  came 
drifting  down  upon  her  nose.  The  rider  was  very 
happy.  He  had  added  yet  another  "point"  to  his  cir- 
cuit, and  had,  besides,  caught  a  glimpse  of  that  long 
future  in  which  "The  Knobs"  would  never  more  be 
unchurched. 

There  are  occasional  life-stories  that  abound  in  ele- 
ments of  tragic  interest.  This  was  particularly  true 
of  the  man  now  riding  in  the  chill  of  the  dying  day. 

William  MacByrne  had  been  bojn  in  the  State  of 
New  York.  In  early  manhood  he  had  cast  in  his  lot 
with  "the  strange  people  called  Methodists."  With 
this  act  there  had  been  born  a  feeling  which  grew,  until 
it  so  overshadowed  his  life  that  he  might  have  cried 
out  with  Paul,  "Woe  is  me  if  I  preach  not  the  Gospel." 

Friends  who  knew  of  his  struggle  bade  him  beware 

51 


DOROTHY 

how  he  trifled  with  that  awesome  thing  which  he  had 
surely  received — a  Divine  "call"  to  the  ministry.  Had 
he  yielded  to  this  strange  "call ;"  had  he,  in  preparation 
for  the  life-work  indicated,  entered  any  one  of  the  sev- 
eral schools  to  which  he  was  directed,  his  life  might 
have  lain  along  different  lines ;  for 

"  There  is  a  point  that  marks  the  destiny  of  man." 

Instead,  there  were  months  of  indecision,  then  a  final 
putting  of  the  overpowering  feeling  aside.  The  facts 
were,  his  life-plans  were  already  made.  He  was  soon  to 
be  married,  and  after  marriage  he  was  to  assume  a  re- 
sponsible position  with  a  large  manufacturing  plant, 
in  which,  by  a  process  newly  discovered,  a  kind  of  rock 
— plentiful  in  the  region — after  being  crushed  to  pow- 
der, was  made  into  a  cement,  which,  on  account  of  its 
quality  of  hardening  under  water,  promised  at  the  time 
to  revolutionize  the  whole  theory  and  work  of  bridge- 
building. 

He  was  (in  the  language  of  the  people)  a  "born 
geologist."  When  a  child,  the  pebbles  he  picked  up, 
or  the  curious  formations  his  eye  never  failed  to  note 
among  the  rocks,  were  his  choicest  playthings.  Much 
of  his  reading  (he  was  largely  self-taught)  had  been 
along  that  one  line. 

He  was  therefore  on  the  threshold  of  a  life  pre- 
eminently to  his  taste.  Should  he  give  it  all  up  in  def- 
erence to  a  strange  "inner  Voice?"  Let  us  not  sit  in 
judgment,  and  let  only  pity  be  ours,  when,  a  few  years 
later,  we  see  him  bowing  by  an  open  grave,  in  which 
friends  are  about  to  bury  his  wife  and  new-born  child. 

52 


THE  KNOBS 

Still  another  lapse  of  time,  and  he  turns  his  face 
westward.  The  "inner  Voice"  is  finally  to  be  heeded. 
Henceforth  he  is  to  be  a  man  of  but  one  mission,  and 
that  to  warn  sinners  to  "flee  from  the  wrath  to  come." 
How  vivid  that  warning  we  already  know;  but  how 
gentle,  how  true  the  heart,  we  shall  yet  see. 

He  allowed  himself  a  single  luxury,  "Princess  the 
beautiful."  There  were  common  horses  offered  him, 
but  he  would  have  none  of  them.  Black  (with  scarcely 
a  hair  of  another  color),  she  was  soft  and  glossy  of 
coat,  slender  of  limb,  fleet  and  sure  of  foot.  She  car- 
ried an  arched  neck,  a  shapely  head,  and  had  eyes  that 
seemed  human  in  intelligence. 

Between  the  two  there  grew  to  be  a  perfect  under- 
standing, and  sometimes,  as  he  rode  through  the  wood, 
the  horse  caught  touches  of  his  nature  that  the  common 
folk  to  whom  he  ministered  never  knew. 

There  was  yet  one  other  outcome  from  the  meet- 
ings besides  the  spiritual  redemption  of  "The  Knobs," 
though  that  were  in  itself  remarkable.  A  single  new 
student  from  their  depths  entered  the  Seminary.  He 
was  the  only  son  of  a  widowed  mother,  and  mother 
and  son  had  been  among  those  socially  ostracized  ones 
who  had  come  North  at  the  instance  and  under  the  pro- 
tection of  the  Government. 

The  youth  had  gone  aimlessly  with  some  neighbors 
to  the  meeting.  Once  there,  he  had  been  strongly 
aroused,  and  had  been  among  the  first  to  "go  forward," 
regardless  of  the  din  that  had  so  shocked  Aunt  Violet. 

The  curious  may  speculate  as  to  what  this  untu- 

S3 


DOROTHY 

tored  young  man  received  on  that  memorable  evening. 
Leaving  the  realm  of  disputed  ethics  as  we  may,  a 
single  fact  stands  out  and  we  may  not  put  it  aside. 
Some  dormant  spring  had  been  touched,  a  mind  had 
been  quickened,  a  soul  awakened,  and  the  first  gropings 
of  that  soul  were  toward  intellectual  light. 

As  the  preacher  was  leaving  the  hills  he  had  been 
surprised  by  the  sudden  apparition  of  a  tall,  overgrown 
youth  by  the  roadside,  who  evidently  desired  to  speak 
with  him. 

The  conversation  that  followed  was  long  and  ear- 
nest, and  the  closing  words  were  from  the  preacher: 
"Spunk  up,  boy,  and  carry  out  the  purpose  of  your 
'heart.  There  is  nothing  to  hinder.  I  will  speak  to 
Professor  Williamson  for  you.  A  better  and  a  kindlier 
man  never  lived.  You  need  not  fear  him  or  any  one. 
This  is  your  chance  to  make  a  man  of  yourself." 

The  homely  advice  was  taken,  and  the  following 
week  the  Professor  added  the  name  "Robert  Stirling" 
to  the  Seminary  roll. 

The  new  student  was,  beyond  doubt,  ungainly.  He 
was  tall  for  his  eighteen  years,  and  it  became  a  daily 
task  to  adjust  his  long  legs  comfortably  to  the  make- 
shift desk  assigned  him.  It  was,  besides,  his  hourly 
study,  and  not  always  successful,  to  prevent  his  sharp 
elbows  from  scattering  his  books  and  the  inevitable 
bottle  of  ink  into  a  miscellaneous  heap  on  the  floor. 

His  clothes  were  of  a  plainest  weave,  and  of  home 
manufacture,'  but  scrupulously  clean.  His  hands  were 

54 


THE  KNOBS 

strong  and  sinewy,  and  a  shock  of  reddish-brown  hair 
fell  over  his  forehead,  but  did  not  hide  the  eagerness 
nor  the  beauty  of  the  eyes. 

"I  believe  MacByrne  is  right,  and  there  is  some- 
thing back  of  that  shock  of  hair,"  was  the  Professor's 
mental  comment  as  he  noted  the  new  student. 

An  incident  occurred  during  the  first  week  that  did 
not  alter  this  conclusion.  A  class  in  physiology  was 
reciting  a  lesson  on  the  framework  of  the  body.  A 
skeleton  had  been  introduced  for  the  purpose  of  illus- 
trating the  wonderful  arrangement  of  pivot,  socket, 
and  hinge  by  which  the  head  obtains  the  rotary  as  well 
as  the  nodding  or  bowing  movement.  The  Professor 
had  just  finished  the  explanation  when  he  observed  an 
"unwinding"  on  the  part  of  the  new  student,  who, 
oblivious  of  his  surroundings,  was  conscious  of  but  one 
thing,  and  that  the  skeleton,  which  he  was  evidently 
coming  forward  to  examine.  The  wise  teacher  had  a 
>  habit  of  being  very  blind  to  the  uncouth,  and  very 
alert  to  discover  a  purpose.  So,  with  a  gesture,  he 
stilled  the  "smile"  that  went  around,  and  held  himself 
ready  to  answer  questions.  Robert  handled  "Sir 
Bones"  with  undisguised  wonder.  Then,  after  very 
critically  turning  the  skull  in  its  socket,  he  as  gravely 
turned  his  own  head,  as  if  for  the  first  time  conscious 
of  the  movement.  He  stood  for  a  moment  as  if  lost 
in  thought,  then,  turning  towards  his  seat,  drawled  out, 
"Well,  I  '11  be  blamed." 

"But  let  the  Creator  be  praised,"  flashed  the  quick 
wit  of  the  teacher,  and  the  rising  laughter  of  the  school 

55 


DOROTHY 

was  still.  The  eyes  of  teacher  and  taught  met.  The 
latter  went  slowly  back  to  his  seat.  He  had  learned  a 
double  lesson. 

When  the  March  winds  began  to  whistle  up  and 
down  the  long  village  street,  and  wail  under  the  win- 
dows as  if  they  were  a  veritable  banshee,  Dorothy  stood 
face  to  face  with  another  sorrow. 

"Aunt  Lucy,"  the  only  mother  she  had  ever  known, 
suddenly  sickened.  She  had  been  ailing  for  more  than 
a  year,  but,  with  her  old  stoicism,  had  not  "let  on" 
sufficiently  to  alarm  the  family.  There  were  a  few 
days  and  nights  of  anxious  watching,  in  which  "Uncle 
John,"  to  whom  since  their  marriage  she  had  minis- 
tered as  to  a  child,  sat  stunned  by  her  bedside.  She  lin- 
gered a  few  days,  then,  as  quietly  as  she  had  lived, 
passed  on.  Not,  though,  till,  with  a  last  look  of  trust- 
ful appeal,  which  Dorothy  understood,  she  commended 
the  bowed  form  at  the  bedside  to  the  young  girl. 

Again  Dorothy  stood  by  an  open  grave;  but  now 
she  was  tall  and  strong,  and  the  neighbors,  many  of 
whom  recalled  that  earlier  scene,  noted  that  now,  in  his 
sorrow,  the  "old  man  with  the  gray  hair"  leaned  heav- 
ily upon  the  strong,  young  arm  that  encircled  him. 

Through  it  all  she  was  conscious  of  a  renewed 
struggle  with  the  misty  memories  of  the  past,  and  a 
desire,  so  intense  that  it  seemed  to  choke  her,  to  clasp 
a  shadowy  form  that  ever  eluded  her,  and  to  draw 
down  to  her  own,  for  her  comfort,  a  sweet  face,  that, 
alas!  remained  ever  in  the  shadows. 

But  she  was  not  without  sympathy.     It  not  infre- 

56 


THE  KNOBS 

quently  happens  that  people  of  simple  lives  put  those 
of  wider  ones  to  shame  by  their  cordial  interest  in  a 
neighbor's  sorrows.  Not  an  act  that  might  soften  the 
grief  of  the  sorrowing  ones  was  left  undone. 

Amid  the  general  sympathy  offered,  Dorothy  re- 
ceived a  note  that  was  in  itself  unusual.  The  envelope 
that  held  it  was  large,  and  its  color  yellow.  The  paper 
on  which  it  was  written  was  not  of  the  most  elegant, 
but  the  writing  was  bold  and  strong.  There  was  but 
a  single  line,  and  it  said:  "I  am  sorry.  Robert  Stir- 
ling." 

Poor  Dorothy!  she  was  very  human,  and,  even  in 
her  grief,  she  smiled  at  the  ungainly  figure  the  signa- 
ture called  up.  Then  the  smiling  lips  curved  in  some- 
thing very  like  scorn,  and  the  well-meant  consolation 
turned  to  smoke,  and  drifted  up  the  chimney  before 
which  she  was  standing. 


57 


CHAPTER  VIII. 
AT  THE  COMMAND  OF  HIS  CHURCH 

ONE  of  the  things  hardest  to  be  borne  by  one  in 
the  grip  of  sorrow  is  the  readiness  with  which  our  little 
world  adjusts  itself  to  the  inevitable.  The  sun  con- 
tinues to  shine  and  the  seasons  to  come  and  go,  as  if 
we  and  our  griefs  were  of  the  least  possible  conse- 
quence. 

In  a  few  weeks  the  Sumner  home  had  been  reorgan- 
ized. A  childless  and  widowed  relative  of  Uncle  John, 
whom  we  shall  come  to  know  later,  assumed  the  house- 
hold reins,  and  life  went  on  with  its  usual  rounds. 

The  hurrying  months  had  brought  yet  another 
change  to  the  little  village.  A  new  preacher  had  taken 
the  place  of  MacByrne,  who,  dearly  beloved  and  suc- 
cessful as  we  have  seen,  had,  in  obedience  to  the  com- 
mands of  his  Church,  journeyed  on  to  his  "new  ap- 
pointment." 

Before  doing  this  he  had,  of  necessity,  returned  to 
his  old  charge  for  a  few  final  preparations.  The  coun- 
try folk,  quick  to  note  the  unusual,  saw  that  he  was 
evidently  in  the  throes  of  a  heavy  burden,  beneath 
which  his  old  genial  self  was  buried.  There  was, 
though,  about  his  grim,  set  mouth  a  look  which  plainly 
said  that,  though  a  certain  cup  was  bitter,  he  would 
drain  it  to  the  dregs. 


AT  THE  COMMAND  OF  HIS  CHURCH 

The  vagueness  of  the  location  of  his  new  appoint- 
ment furnished  a  fruitful  theme  of  discussion,  and  the 
opinion  began  to  obtain  that,  in  some  inexplicable  man- 
ner, the  preacher  beloved  of  all,  had  not  been  treated 
"square." 

The  "Store"  took  the  matter  up  in  detail,  and  the 
Baptist  contingent  were  able  to  make  some  rapier-like 
thrusts  at  a  polity  that  by  any  chance  could  admit  of 
such  a  catastrophe,  which  the  other  side  (in  the  face  of 
public  opinion)  found  hard  to  parry. 

The  truth  is,  no  one  is  yet  able  to  tell  how  the  un- 
fortunate thing  came  about,  which  the  "Store"  and  the 
little  world,  of  which  it  was  the  center,  deplored. 

That  particular  session  of  the  Conference  had  been 
"stormy"  from  the  beginning  to  the  close.  Bishop  and 
cabinet  had  wrestled  long  and  earnestly  over  each  day's 
new  problems.  For  the  "square  pegs"  had  manifested 
an  unusual  persistence  in  getting  into  the  "round  holes." 

Upon  the  checker-board  of  Conference  possibilities 
there  were  scheduled  a  given  number  of  "irrevocable 
moves"  from  "Somewhere"  to  "Somewhere."  It  fol- 
lowed, as  a  consequence,  that  the  "man  pawn"  occupy- 
ing the  latter  "Somewhere"  had  also  to  "move  on;"  so, 
added  to  the  list  of  "irrevocable  moves,"  there  was  yet 
another  set  of  "consequent  ones."  It  was  little  wonder 
if,  amid  all  the  anxiety  attendant  upon  honestly  trying 
to  do  the  best  for  all,  one  unpretentious  "pawn"  should 
have  been  jostled  aside,  and  in  the  stress  quite  forgotten. 

The  Conference  had  gathered  for  its  final  session. 
The  bishop  was  in  his  chair,  and  the  "paper  of  fate" 
was  in  his  hands.  The  hush  that  invariably  precedes 

59 


DOROTHY 

the  reading  of  the  appointments  had  already  set  in. 
Suddenly  one  of  the  elders,  with  consternation  written 
upon  his  face,  was  seen  to  leave  his  seat  and  hurriedly 
to  approach  the  bishop.  The  matter  of  which  the  two 
talked  was  evidently  of  importance,  for  the  latter  could 
not  conceal  his  dismay. 

It  was  indeed  the  unprecedented  that  had  happened. 
For  the  first  and  only  time  in  the  history  of  the  great 
Church  a  Methodist  preacher  had  been  left  without 
an  appointment !  What  should  be,  what  could  be  done 
at  this  last  moment  ? 

In  the  preceding  sessions  of  the  cabinet  each  "point 
had  been  carefully  "manned."  But  here,  'just  in  front 
of  the  bishop,  sat  a  "surplus"  man  (our  circuit  preacher, 
by  the  way),  who,  wholly  unconscious  of  official  per- 
turbation, was  with  his  "brethren"  awaiting  the  final 
reading.  But  something  must  be  done,  and  that 
quickly. 

In  the  bishop's  coat-pocket  lay  a  letter,  with  the 
demands  of  which,  for  the  lack  of  material,  he  had  been 
unable  to  comply.  It  graphically  portrayed  the  needs 
of  a  missionary  to  the  lumber-camps  of  the  great 
Northwest.  There  was  a  quick  scanning,  by  a  prac- 
ticed eye,  of  the  unconscious  man  in  front.  Would  he 
do?  "I  like  that  square  jaw,"  was  the  bishop's  com- 
ment to  himself.  "At  any  rate,  I  will  risk  it." 

"I  have  it,"  he  said  aloud  to  the  elder,  who,  thank- 
ful that  there  was  a  superior  officer  who  must  assume 
the  final  responsibility,  took  his  seat.  A  few  minutes 
later  a  plain  man — who  knew  that  he  was  plain,  but 
had  not  guessed  that  he  was  superfluous — heard  read 
60 


AT  THE  COMMAND  OF  HIS  CHURCH 

his  name,  "William  MacByrne,"  and  following  it  his 
appointment:  "Missionary  to  the  Great  Woods." 

It  is  never  wise  to  pry  into  heart  secrets ;  so,  if  here 
and  there  in  this  band  of  men,  who,  at  the  close  of  the 
reading,  girded  themselves  afresh  for  the  work  of  their 
lives,  there  was  a  heart  that  ached  with  the  shattering 
of  ambitions,  we  shall  not  ask  how  godly,  nor  how 
worldly-wise  these  might  have  been;  for  if,  amid  the 
shoals  of  fish  at  home  in  the  great  ocean,  there  be  one 
that,  admiring  strength,  hugs  to  itself  the  sweet  dream 
that  one  day  it,  too,  shall  be  a  whale,  shall  we  not 
pity  rather  than  smile — and  remembering  how  swift 
in  passing  is  the  little  day  of  human  authority  and 
how  certain  the  Divine  retribution  if  it  be  misused, 
shall  not  the  same  pity  obtain  towards  those  to  whom 
such  authority  has  been  committed? 

In  a  few  hours  Princess  had  borne  him,  who  had 
been  found  "surplus,"  miles  away  from  the  seat  of  the 
Conference.  His  face  was  drawn,  his  lips  tightly  shut, 
as  if  he  were  in  great  physical  pain. 

Presently  a  stretch  of  woodland  was  reached,  where 
spreading  beeches  and  tall,  upright  oaks  cast  their 
shadows.  Cooling  breezes — God's  own  breath — swept 
across  his  hot  brow,  and  touched  gently  his  jarring 
heartstrings. 

A  touch  upon  the  rein  bade  the  carrying  comrade 
pause.  For  a  moment  the  man  sat  with  his  brow  bared 
to  the  cooling  breeze;  then  he  slid  to  the  ground. 

The  birds  above,  as  if  in  wonder  at  the  sound  that 
arose,  ceased  for  a  moment  their  caroling;  then,  catch- 
ing the  meaning,  they  broke  into  a  louder  and  more 

61 


DOROTHY 

exultant  strain.  A  soul  beneath  them  was  pouring 
itself  out  at  the  feet  of  God ;  and  for  such  an  act  there 
is  in  Nature's  kingdom  a  common  language! 

The  plans  of  the  surplus  man  were  few.  A  thought 
had  come  to  him,  and  remained.  As  he  was  to  serve 
men  who  were  away  from  that  civilization  summed  up 
in  the  words  mother  and  wife,  it  might  be  well  if  he 
had  some  special  preparation.  There  would  be  the  sick 
whom  he  should  know  better  how  to  nurse,  and  pos- 
sible emergencies  which  if  he  were  prepared  to  meet, 
might  mean  the  saving  of  life.  He  decided  to  obtain 
from  Professor  Williamson  an  introduction  to  the  head 
of  a  medical  college  in  a  not  far-distant  city. 

Such  an  introduction,  he  argued,  would  secure  for 
him  the  fundamental  sort  of  instruction  he  desired,  and, 
above  all,  a  few  weeks'  insight  into  hospital  work. 

The  favor  was  readily  granted,  and,  on  its  strength, 
not  a  physician  on  the  staff,  upon  learning  for  what  the 
quiet  man  was  preparing,  but  was  at  great  pains  to  help 
him  in  every  possible  way. 

He  gave  as  much  time  to  this  preparation  as  he 
could,  and  still  be  able  to  reach  the  "Woods"  before 
midwinter. 

He  gave  himself  (before  his  final  departure)  the 
privilege  of  a  few  days  on  the  circuit  that  had  been 
home.  He  lingered  longest  in  the  little  cabins  among 
"The  Knobs."  From  the  first  these  people  had  greatly 
appealed  to  him,  and  as  his  acquaintance  progressed 
he  had  stumbled  upon  many  strange  "life  stories"  that 
had  enlisted  his  sympathy. 

Among  them  all,  none  had  crept  quite  so  close  to 

62 


AT  THE  COMMAND  OF  HIS  CHURCH 

his  heart  as  had  Robert  Stirling.  With  him  and  the 
little  mother  the  parting  conversation  had  run  along 
a  single  line — education.  As  he  was  leaving  he  took 
Robert's  hand  in  his  own,  and  holding  it  a  moment  he 
said,  "Choose  your  life-work  early;  choose  it  seriously, 
even  prayerfully;  and  after  the  choice  is  made,  I  beg 
of  you,  bend  every  energy  in  preparation."  He  paused, 
and  in  a  subtle  way  the  youth  realized  that  the  speaker's 
inner  self  was  being  revealed.  Then  he  continued, 
"Remember,  it  has  been  truly  said  that  'he  who  enters 
upon  his  life-work  without  preparation  but  invites  dis- 
aster.' " 

An  hour  later  Princess  picked  her  way  down  steep 
precipices  and  across  swift-flowing  streams,  carrying, 
as  she  did  so,  a  saddened  but  yet  an  unflinching  man. 

There  remained  yet  one  other  leave-taking.  At 
this  two  men — quite  alone  in  a  book-lined  room — 
talked  long  and  earnestly  together.  They  were  vastly 
different  in  appearance.  Upon  the  brow  of  one  life  had 
been  pleased  to  stamp  the  insignia  of  success.  But,  alas ! 
in  the  other's  proud  heart — for  it  was  proud — there 
rankled  the  humiliation  of  conscious  failure.  And  to 
the  human  heart  there  can  come  no  more  bitter 
draught ! 

It  had  been  to  convince  this  saddened  one  that  vic- 
tory often  came  in  the  guise  of  defeat,  that  the  conver- 
sation lingered.  Finally  the  preacher  arose  to  go,  the 
other  accompanying  him.  They  paused  at  the  lichen- 
covered  fence.  The  moment  of  parting  had  come,  and 
a  loving  and  sympathetic  hand  clasped  the  rougher  one 
offered,  and  a  voice  that  thrilled  with  emotion  said: 

63 


DOROTHY 

"Be  of  good  cheer,  and  do  not,  as  you  are  inclined, 
underestimate  this  unexpected  and  unwelcome  duty. 
It  may  comfort  you,  as  you  go,  to  remember  that  God- 
given  duties  differ  only  in  kind,  never  in  quality,  and, 
be  assured,  life  holds  no  greater  satisfaction  than  that 
which  arises  from  within,  when  such  duties  are  done 
patiently  and  conscientiously." 

The  departing  man's  footsteps  were  sounding  amid 
the  falling  leaves  when  he  suddenly  turned.  The  Pro- 
fessor, leaning  against  the  weatherbeaten  fence,  was 
still  watching  him. 

"There  is  Robert" — his  voice  choked — "I  had 
meant  to  see  that  he  enters  college." 

A  sympathetic  hand  clasped  his,  and  a  voice  as 
heavy  with  emotion  as  his  own,  said,  "I  will  take  it  as 
a  trust." 

Once  more  the  preacher  turned  to  go,  and  once 
more  he  hesitated.  He  was  about  to  speak  of  the  now 
twice-orphaned  Dorothy,  but  Princess  was  impatiently 
calling;  so,  mounting  her,  he  waved  a  last  farewell  to 
his  still  watching  friend,  and  the  new  "Woods 
preacher"  rode  on,  and  out  of  the  lives  of  all  who 
knew  him,  save  a  bare  three  or  four. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

A  COURTHOUSE  WAR,  AND  A 
SEQUENCE 

IT  is  to  be  doubted  if,  in  the  history  of  events  purely 
local,  one  can  be  found  of  more  thrilling  interest  or 
richer  in  incident  than  is  the  removal  of  a  county  seat 
after  it  has  been  long  established.  Pride  of  locality 
and  business  interests  combine  on  the  one  hand  to  pre- 
vent, and  on  the  other  to  urge  removal. 

"Court-house  war"  is  a  phrase  coined  to  express 
the  bitterness  and  strife  such  an  attempt  engenders. 
Such  a  war  had  lain  dormant  in  Winfield  County  for 
years,  occasionally  arousing  itself,  and  looming  upon 
the  horizon  in  threatening  proportions. 

In  the  days  of  early  settlement  the  county  seat  had 

been  located  at  F ,  a  promising  enough  little  town, 

but  with  the  drawback  of  being  on  the  county  line. 
Its  claim  to  precedence  had  lain  in  the  fact  that  it  was 
the  terminal  point  of  the  one  railroad  the  county 
boasted.  A  precedence,  though,  that  finally  availed 
little;  for,  with  the  extension  of  the  road,  its  proposed 
route  was  changed,  leaving  the  entire  county  with  the 
exception  of  F quite  to  one  side. 

Justice  demanded  its  location  at  Middletown,  which 
— as  its  name  indicated — was  in  the  center  of  the 
county,  and  was,  besides,  easy  of  access.  But  by  certain 


DOROTHY 

methods  (upon  which  local  politicians  might  have 
possibly  thrown  light)  it  had  been  impossible  hitherto 
for  those  feeling  themselves  aggrieved  to  obtain  the 
privilege  of  voting  upon  the  question  in  the  midst  of 
the  continued  agitation,  work  was  begun  on  another 
long-promised  "road,"  and  after  many  tantalizing  stops 
— some  longer,  some  shorter — it  was  at  length  an- 
nounced as  within  a  hundred  miles  of  the  "geograph- 
ical center,"  and  with  the  news  "court-house  removal" 
became  at  once  a  topic  of  engrossing  interest.  By  a 
"coup"  (the  details  of  which  were  told  at  the  "Store" 
with  a  relish)  the  question  was  submitted  to  the  people 
of  the  county,  and  the  carrying  became  only  a  matter 
of  votes.  At  this,  all  Middletown  girded  itself  to  do 
battle,  the  "Store,"  as  a  matter  of  course,  becoming 
headquarters  for  "removal  agitation." 

Since  the  sudden  death  of  his  wife,  its  proprietor, 
"Uncle  John,"  had  gone  about  as  though  bereft  of  hope. 
The  neighbors  shook  their  heads  at  the  sight,  and  whis- 
pered among  themselves,  "He  won't  be  long  for  this 
world."  But  as  the  war-horse,  peacefully  ending  his 
days  amid  green  pastures  if  the  blare  of  war's  trumpet 
but  falls  upon  his  failing  ears,  is  said  to  renew  his  youth 
in  his  eagerness  for  the  fray,  so  the  present  contest 
again  aroused  that  old  fighting  instinct  which  had  made 
the  name  "John  Suraner"  rich  in  local  prestige.  Su- 
pineness  and  inertia  dropped  from  him  as  if  mere  gar- 
ments, and  he  gave  himself  to  the  direction  of  the  cam- 
paign ;  a  campaign  that  meant  the  personal  interviewing 
of  each  voter  in  the  several  townships.  The  interest 
extended,  of  course,  to  the  Seminary,  and  once  more 

66 


A  COURTHOUSE  WAR,  AND  A  SEQUENCE 

New  Englander  and  Kentuckian  owned  a  common  in- 
terest. 

Dorothy  was  by  nature  a  partisan,  and  in  these 
stirring  days  of  action  felt  sorely  limitations  of  age  and 
sex.  On  a  certain  noon,  while  the  students  were  dis- 
cussing the  probable  outcome,  in  her  intensity  of  feel- 
ing she  clasped  her  hands  almost  tragically,  and  cried 
out:  "O,  but  I  wish  I  were  a  man!"  (The  private 
opinion  of  more  than  one  of  the  boys  was  that  she  did 
very  well  as  she  was.) 

"And  what  would  you  do  if  you  were  a  man?"  It 
was  Robert  who  asked  the  question — Robert,  for  whom 
the  time  in  school  and  association  with  the  "Professor" 
had  done  much. 

"Well,  for  one  thing  I  would  go  out  and  make — 
yes,  make  [for  they  were  smiling]  every  man  vote  as  I 
wanted  him  to." 

"Ah!  what  an  easy  task  would  be  hers!"  thought 
Robert. 

But  had  she  thrown  down  a  challenge?  It  might 
appear  so. 

This  conversation  had  occurred  on  a  Friday.  The 
following  Tuesday  was  set  for  the  election.  That  the 
result  was  yet  in  doubt  all  acknowledged,  for  the  rival 
"end"  of  the  county  was  leaving  no  stone  unturned  to 
prevent  removal. 

On  Fridays  Robert  usually  returned  to  his  home. 
During  this  homeward  ride  he  appeared  in  a  very 
thoughtful  mood.  Upon  his  arrival  there,  by  that  sort 
of  Freemasonry  which  obtains  between  mothers  and 
sons,  the  one  read  the  restlessness  of  the  other.  The 

67 


DOROTHY 

whole  matter  came  out  in  a  conversation  which  oc- 
curred in  the  gathering  twilight,  as  the  two,  quite 
close  together,  leaned  over  the  pasture  bars. 

The  following  morning,  quite  to  his  ponyship's  sur- 
prise, "Shaggy" — he  that  carried  Robert  to  and  from 
the  school — already  saddled  and  bridled,  was  brought 
to  the  stile,  and  soon  Robert,  turning  a  bend,  waved  a 
farewell  to  his  mother.  Before  nightfall,  each  man  on 
"The  Knobs"  had  listened  to  an  eloquent  setting  forth 
of  Middletown's  claims  to  precedence. 

On  the  evening  of  election  day,  an  anxious,  and, 
for  once,  a  silent  group  waited  at  the  "Store."  Run- 
ners were  to  bring  the  election  returns  from  the  dif- 
ferent townships.  Already  these  reports  had  begun 
to  come  in,  and  they  were  not  reassuring.  The  "op- 
position," it  began  to  appear,  had  developed  remark- 
able strength. 

At  last  each  report,  save  the  one  from  Knob  Town- 
ship, was  in.  As  yet  there  was  a  bare  majority  for 
removal.  All  now  hinged  upon  this  delayed  report, 
acknowledged  at  best  to  be  uncertain;  for  it  went  by 
common  consent  that  "the  hill  people  were  mighty 
independent,"  voting  on  any  question  as  happened  to 
suit  their  fancy,  occasionally  serving  up,  with  evident 
relish,  political  surprises  to  those  other  portions  of  the 
county  that  held,  as  they  believed,  their  surroundings 
in  contempt.  Suddenly  there  sounded  the  clatter  of 
hoofs,  and  the  expected  "runner"  breathlessly  dis- 
mounted, entered  the  "Store,"  and  handed  a  sealed 
paper  to  "Uncle  John." 

68 


A  COURTHOUSE  AVAR,  AND  A  SEQUENCE 

The  silence  during  the  unfolding  was  oppressive. 
When  the  figures  were  read  there  was  still  a  moment 
when  none  spoke;  then  one  of  their  number,  "Long 
David"  by  sobriquet,  slid  down  from  his  perch  on  the 
counter,  rushed  out  upon  the  little  porch,  and  gave  one 
prolonged  hurrah. 

Removal  had  carried! 

Each  man  on  "The  Knobs"  had,  as  it  appeared, 
voted,  and  in  the  opinion  of  Middletown,  had  voted 
right. 

Robert's  share  in  the  carrying  of  the  "proposition" 
gradually  became  known.  But  the  public — often  de- 
ceived— took  it  for  granted  that  his  interest  was  wholly 
due  to  his  loyalty  to  the  Seminary  and  its  interests. 

But  Dorothy  knew!  And  this  without  the  ex- 
change of  a  single  wrord,  so  independent  is  Cupid  of  the 
ordinary  means  of  communication! 

The  eager  lover  of  a  succeeding  generation  chooses, 
perhaps,  as  a  gift  a  cluster  of  fragrant  roses,  and  be- 
stows the  same  with  a  polish  and  ease  of  manner  such 
as  Robert  did  not  know.  Such  a  gift,  however,  makes 
no  great  demand  on  that  intangible  something  called 
"force  of  character,"  a  something  in  which  that  other 
unique  offering  was  certainly  rich. 

It  is  a  poor  specimen  of  girlhood  that  fails  to  yield 
her  homage  to  that  same  intagible  "something" 
wherever  found.  And  Dorothy  was  no  poor  specimen. 
Indeed,  her  approval  was  so  marked  that  a  daring 
thought  presented  itself  to  Robert's  mind,  one  that  a 
week  ago  he  had  not  allowed  himself  to  cherish. 

69 


DOROTHY 

A  district  school,  perhaps  a  mile  distant,  had  chal- 
lenged the  "Seminary"  to  a  spelling  match,  and  a  social 
code  quite  as  strong  as  that  older  one,  which  branded  a 
man  a  coward  who  failed  to  accept  a  challenge  to  a 
duel,  made  an  acceptance  imperative. 

During  the  week  preceding  the  "removal  election," 
interest  had  in  some  quarters  been  divided  between  that 
and  preparations  for  the  "spelling,"  which,  owing  to 
the  unintentional  rivalry  that  had  sprung  up  between 
the  two  schools,  promised  to  be  of  intense  interest."* 

It  was  customary  for  each  school  to  choose  a  leader. 
In  the  "Seminary"  the  choice  wavered  between  Robert 
and  Dorothy,  each  adepts  in  the  "art  orthographical." 
The  final  choice  fell  on  Robert. 

The  interest  rapidly  spread  from  the  two  schools 
involved  to  their  respective  neighborhoods,  even  the 
elders  looking  forward  to  the  exhilaration  of  the  event, 
expecting  in  it  to  renew  the  triumphs  of  their  own 
youth.  For  history  hath  it  that  there  had  been  "spell- 
ers" in  those  still  older  days ! 

After  an  immense  deal  of  lagging  on  the  part  of 
Time,  the  eventful  evening  finally  came.  At  a  given 
signal  the  opposing  forces  ranged  themselves;  the  lead- 
ers standing  side  by  side  at  the  teacher's  desk,  their 
cohorts  extending  in  lines  quite  around  the  room.  The 
rules  were  few.  Beginning  with  the  leaders,  they 

*  Perhaps  an  apology  is  due  a  long-suffering  public  for  the 
introduction  of  "yet  another  spelling  match."  The  truth  is, 
as  the  "oldest  inhabitant "  can  testify,  it  is  impossible  to  refer  to 
the  schools  of  a  generation  ago  without  some  such  reference. 
No  educational  feature  was  more  apparent,  and  no  event  of  more 
social  interest  to  a  neighborhood. 
70 


A  COURTHOUSE  WAR,  AND  A  SEQUENCE 

would  spell  around,  those  spelling  incorrectly  taking 
their  seats. 

In  the  present  instance,  after  a  few  rounds,  first 
one  and  then  another  discomfited  speller  sat  down, 
covered  with  proper  chagrin.  Finally,  on  the  District's 
side  only  the  leader  remained ;  on  the  Seminary's 
Robert  and  one  other,  and  that  other,  Dorothy.  For 
once  Robert  was  hardly  aware  of  her  presence. 

"Asafcetida!"  a  stentorian  voice  pronounced.  At 
the  pungent  word  the  leader  of  the  District  floundered. 
In  the  crisis  men  held  their  breath ;  as  for  the  women — 
according  to  subsequent  testimony — a  dozen  or  more 
"fairly  ached"  to  help  him  out.  Still  floundering,  he 
finally  failed  outright,  and  the  word  was  passed  to 
Dorothy,  who  spelled  it  correctly. 

The  Seminary  had  won,  and  won  "fair" — the  last 
an  important  element  in  the  victory ;  for  blackened  eyes 
had  been  not  infrequent  trophies  of  such  contests. 

Robert  now  began  to  come  down  to  earth,  and,  in 
doing  so,  became  aware,  not  only  of  his  own  conspic- 
uous position,  but  also  of  Dorothy's  presence.  In 
double  embarrassment  he  was  hurrying  to  his  seat, 
when  some  one,  pining  for  further  excitement,  called 
out,  "Let  them  spell  down" — meaning  Robert  and 
Dorothy.  The  cry  was  taken  up,  and  soon  the  two 
were  running  the  gamut  of  words.  It  soon  became 
evident  that  no  ordinary  "Speller"  would  meet  the  re- 
quirements, so  a  geography  was  secured,  and  presently 
he  of  the  stentorian  voice  led  the  two  a  merry  chase 
through  South  America,  China,  India,  and  finally 
launched  them  upon  the  Pacific  Ocean. 

7* 


DOROTHY 

"Philippine,"  announced  he,  peering  over  his  spec- 
tacles. It  was  Dorothy's  turn.  "P-h-i-1-l-i-p-i-n-e," 
promptly  spelled  she.  "P-h-i-1-i-p-p-i-n-e,"  as  promptly 
corrected  Robert. 

Who  shall  declare  that  the  heart  of  a  young  girl 
is  not  a  queer  bit  of  mechanism  ?  Strangely  enough,  as 
Dorothy  took  her  seat,  that  organ,  which  should  have 
been  busy  with  the  mere  matter  of  heart-beats  (hast- 
ened by  possible  chagrin  for  her  failure)  actually  re- 
corded a  second  victory  for  Robert. 

We  have  already  said  this  young  man  had  been 
for  days  nourishing  a  daring  hope.  The  moment  had 
come  to  attempt  its  realization. 

The  contest  over,  the  "big  boys"  were  ranging 
themselves  in  a  sort  of  double  phalanx  outside  the 
door,  a  phalanx  through  wrhich  every  blessed  girl,  home- 
ward bound  would  have  to  pass. 

The  pen  has  never  yet  been  fashioned  that  can 
properly  picture  the  tumult  of  bashful  fears,  the  secret 
hopes,  that  together  held  sway  in  the  waiting  phalanx; 
nor  yet  the  maidenly  trepidation  with  which  each  girl 
stepped  from  the  shelter  of  the  crowded  room  into  the 
open  air. 

Had  an  uninitiated  one  been  looking  on,  he  might 
have  thought  he  saw  a  revival  of  that  older  age 
when  savage  wooer  swooped  down  and  stole  his 
mate;  for  some  such  event  seemed  now  to  be  taking 
place.  In  a  twinkling  the  phalanx  grew  less,  and  the 
patient  old  moon,  that  has  had  to  beam  on  many  fol- 
lies, looked  down  once  more  and  smiled  knowingly 
at  the  happy  rustic  pairs.  Not  all,  however,  walked  in 

72 


A  COURTHOUSE  WAR,  AND  A  SEQUENCE 

pairs.  Occasionally  a  crestfallen  young  man  stole  off 
alone.  He  had  received  "the  mitten,"  while  here  and 
there  some  unappreciated  maiden,  quite  as  crestfallen, 
sought  her  home  unattended. 

Did  such  a  fate  as  the  former  await  Robert,  who 
watched  the  door  which  still  hid  Dorothy?  He  did 
not  know;  but  Spartacus  was  never  more  determined 
than  he.  A  young  girl  can  not  always  find  excuses 
for  lingering,  so  finally  the  fateful  moment  came.  A 
moment  of  fierce  heart-beats,  a  low  question  that  came 
very  near  stopping  in  a  very  dry  throat,  a  half-given 
reply,  and  the  homeward  walk  together  had  begun. 

Strange  that,  when  Robert  would  have  given 
worlds  for  an  eloquent  tongue,  his  should  have  so 
thickened  and  cleaved  to  the  roof  of  his  mouth,  that 
even  his  monosyllables  were  husky  and  gruff.  Strange 
that  his  mind  should  suddenly  become  a  vacuum,  from 
which  every  available  topic  for  conversation  had  fled. 
No,  not  strange;  for  each  rapidly  departing  sense  was 
fixed  on  a  plump  little  hand  that,  very  white  in  the 
moonlight,  lay  lightly  on  his  arm,  and  which,  because 
the  evenings  were  yet  chilly,  he  must  needs  in  some 
way  protect  from  the  cold.  Not  strange;  for  by  and 
by,  as  a  riven  sycamore,  tall  and  white  in  the  shadows, 
loomed  in  their  path,  and  Dorothy,  with  a  real  little 
shiver  of  fear,  asked  under  her  breath,  "What 's  that?" 
he  had  to  draw  her  yet  more  closely  to  himself  for  pro- 
tection ;  thinking  all  the  while  of  that  lucky,  very  much 
overestimated  old  St.  George  who  had  a  dragon  ready 
furnished  him  to  slay.  Ah!  if  modern  fate  would  but 
be  so  kind! — that  he  might  know  the  thrill  of  a  heroic 

73 


DOROTHY 

deed  'done  for  the  sake  of  the  dear  girl  who  walked  by 
his  side. 

But  a  walk,  though  every  step  be  taken  on  air  (so 
light  seems  the  heart),  must  finally  end.  This  one 
could  be  no  exception;  but  Robert  began  to  date  his 
life  from  that  hour. 


74 


CHAPTER  X. 
AN  IMPORTANT  ARRIVAL 

NOTWITHSTANDING  the  various  excitements  which 
persisted  in  hovering  over  Middletown,  there  were, 
since  the  death, of  her  foster-mother,  many  quiet  days 
for  Dorothy — days  when  she  sometimes  asked  herself 
what  she  must  have  done  had  not  the  "Beeches"  been 
so  near,  and  the  companionship  there  so  delightful. 
For  the  intimacy  begun  during  that  first  summer  had 
deepened,  until  she  was  now  at  home  in  every  nook 
and  corner  of  the  rambling  old  place.  And  they  of 
that  quiet  household  now  listened  eagerly  for  the  quick 
footsteps,  or  smiled  when  they  heard  her  bright,  cheery 
laughter  in  Aunt  Violet's  own  quarters. 

A  warm  friendship  had  sprung  up  between  this 
strangely  assorted  pair.  The  quaint  sayings  and  the 
queer  conceits  of  the  latter  formed  a  never-ending 
source  of  amusement  and  entertainment  to  this  North- 
ern-bred girl.  On  the  other  hand,  the  heart  of  the 
loyal  serving  woman  was  very  hungry  for  the  young 
people  who,  in  other  years,  had  flitted  in  and  out  of  her 
kitchen,  and  its  tendrils  were  unconsciously  reaching 
out  for  another  object  around  which  to  entwine. 

Though  Dorothy  did  not  suspect  it,  she  had  been 
held  for  weeks  under  the  closest  surveillance  by  this 
ebony-hued  critic,  and  her  every  action  carefully 

75 


DOROTHY 

weighed.  It  was  "Mis' "  Millicent  who  heard  the 
final  verdict.  "I  do  n't  keer  nothin'  about  her  folks ; 
she 's  a  bawn  lady,  sho'."  That  being  assured,  Aunt 
Violet  at  once  gathered  the  young  girl  to  her  warm, 
capacious  heart,  and  loved  her. 

On  the  occasion  of  a  certain  morning  visit  Dorothy 
found  this  friend  in  a  high  state  of  excitement,  which 
was  rinding  an  outlet  in  unusual  culinary  preparations. 
She  soon  learned  that  "Marsa  Clay  had  done  wrote 
a  letter  to  Mis'  Millicent  from  de  U-ni-vusity"  (Aunt 
Violet  was  properly  impressed  with  the  dignity  the 
word  implied,  and  rolled  the  syllables  accordingly), 
"saying  dat  in  June  he  was  a  comin'  straight  heah, 
'caze  he  'lowed  he  was  jest  pinin'  to  know  how  we 
was  all  a  gettin'  along  on  Turkey  Crik."  And  the 
happy  Aunty  chuckled  gleefully,  and  snipped  the  raisins 
she  happened  to  have  in  hand  with  yet  more  energy. 

"Turkey  Creek?"  Dorothy  repeated  interroga- 
tively. 

"O,  dat 's  one  of  Marsa  Clay's  jokes.  You  '11 
find  he  's  always  a  jokin'.  He  's  driv  me  plum'  crazy 
more  dan  once  wid  his  torn- foolery."  And  again  the 
speaker  chuckled,  as  if  that  sensation  had  been  the 
acme  of  delight. 

"But  there  is  no  Turkey  Creek  here,"  persisted 
Dorothy. 

"I  done  tole  you  dat  was  one  of  Marsa  Clay's 
jokes."  There  was  a  touch  of  impatience  in  the  an- 
swer. "You  see,  chile,  back  in  ole  Virginy,  Turkey 
Crik  wa'  n't  very  far  from  de  ole  plantation.  It  come 
tearin'  down  from  de  mountain  not  very  far  off,  and 

76 


AN  IMPORTANT  ARRIVAL 

on  dat  Turkey  Crik  (are  you  llstenln',  chile?)  and 
clar  up  de  mountains  whah  it  started,  the  poah  white 
folks  was  just  dat  thick  dat  it  got  to  be  a  saying, 
'Turkey  Crik  and  poah  white  folks,  dey  go  together.'  " 

A  warning  flush  on  the  young  girl's  face,  a  flash 
from  the  eyes,  now  quite  black  with  excitement, 
warned  "Auntie"  that  she  had  blundered.  So  she 
hastened  to  add,  "O'  co'se,  Honey,  yoah  people  ain't 
poah  whites;  Marsa  Professah  done  'splained  dat  to 
me.  Marsa  Clay  he  do  n't  understand ;  he  11  find  out 
right  away." 

But  despite  all  voluble  explanations  the  day  was 
spoiled  for  Dorothy,  and  a  half  hour  later,  with  down- 
cast head  and  troubled  face,  she  turned  homeward  into 
the  woodland  path. 

Aunt  Violet  watched  the  dejected  little  figure  with 
growing  pity.  "  'Pears  like  I  done  said  de  wrong 
thing,"  she  said  to  herself.  "But  it  will  turn  out 
all  right,  'cause  Marsa  Clay  '11  soon  find  out  dat  she  's 
no  poah  white.  I  knows  quality  folks  when  I  sees 
'em." 

The  truth  was,  Dorothy  ha-d  been  touched  in  her 
most  vulnerable  point.  Long  before  the  coming  of  the 
Williamsons  she  had  been  conscious  of  a  vague  dis- 
satisfaction— with  what,  she  scarcely  knew.  This  may 
have  had  its  origin  during  the  hours  she  spent  alone 
before  her  little  fire-place.  Or  the  meager  details  of 
her  babyhood  may  have  ministered  to  it.  At  any  rate, 
there  were  times  when  the  "alien"  feeling  to  her  sur- 
roundings was  very  strong,  and  her  perception  of  all 
that  was  incongruous  very  keen. 

77 


DOROTHY 

Once  she  had  heard  a  speaker  address  a  crowd,  of 
which  she  was  a  part,  as  "our  honest  yeomanry,"  and 
the  application  rankled;  "as  if  we  were  servants,"  she 
said  to  Uncle  John  at  the  inevitable  discussion  of  the 
speech. 

"Take  care,  take  care ;  remember  that  pride  goeth 
before  a  fall,"  and  then,  as  he  gravely  looked  her  over, 
he  said:  "I  would  like  to  know  where  you  get  such 
queer  notions ;  not  out  of  your  Bible,  I  am  sure.  You  'd 
better  read  it  a  little  more  carefully." 

Following  this,  and  only  a  few  days  before  Aunt 
Violet's  "slip,"  there  had  been  another  incident  which 
had  left  its  sting.  A  smart  young  attorney  from  out- 
side the  village — a  candidate  for  an  office — knowing 
that  before  election-day  it  would  be  well  for  him  to  do 
a  little  preliminary  handshaking,  dropped  into  the 
"Store"  for  that  self-same  purpose.  It  happened  that, 
on  the  morning  of  the  visit,  Dorothy  had  undertaken 
to  straighten  out  Uncle  John's  mysterious  book-keep- 
ing, and  was  at  the  moment  of  his  entrance  quite  busy 
with  her  task. 

He  greeted  the  crowd  with  a  very  suave  smile, 
from  which  he  had  not  been  able  to  eliminate  all  traces 
of  condescension ;  then,  beginning  with  Uncle  John,  he 
shook  hands  all  around;  this  with  the  fervor  of  a 
bosom  friend.  But  this  exercise  over,  he  was  obliged 
to  stand  aside,  notwithstanding  a  nectar-dripping  speech 
he  had  at  his  tongue's  end,  and  allow  an  event  already 
in  progress  to  take  its  course. 

It  had  happened  that,  a  few  minutes  before  his  en- 
trance, "Long  David,"  one  of  the  "Store's"  most  per- 

78 


AN  IMPORTANT  ARRIVAL 

sistent  loungers,  who  "held"  to  the  Methodists,  and 
"Shorty  MacPeters,"  another  habitue  (and  a  sort  of 
peripatetic  Baptist  preacher  of  the  "iron-clad"  variety), 
had,  in  the  parlance  of  the  "Store,"  "locked  horns"  on 
no  less  a  subject  than  "Infant  Baptism"  and  the  conse- 
quent eligibility  of  children  to  Church  membership. 

A  word  concerning  "David"  (the  why  of  whose 
sobriquet  was  very  much  in  evidence)  is  due  at  this 
point.  He  was  of  the  neighborhood,  "native  born," 
with  New  England  as  an  ancestral  background,  and 
had  served  from  the  beginning  to  the  close  of  the  late 
war.  Once  during  those  four  years  he  had  returned 
home  on  a  furlough,  and  being  very  spick-and-span  in 
his  bright  uniform,  he  became  at  once  a  prominent 
figure  at  local  gatherings.  At  one  of  these  he  had  met 
a  country  lass  who  had  attracted  him.  There  followed 
a  hasty  wooing — and  a  hasty  marriage — and  then  the 
"boy"  husband  returned  to  the  "front."  The  war  over, 
it  was  openly  hinted  that  the  "strangers"  had  found 
plenty  of  leisure  to  repent  of  their  haste.  Besides, 
David  had  found  it  hard  to  settle  down  to  the  necessary 
struggle — always  more  or  less  humdrum — for  a  liveli- 
hood, and,  fleeing  the  consequent  wrath  of  Mrs.  David, 
had  found  the  "Store"  a  veritable  haven.  He  had  a 
zest  for  argument,  whether  political  or  ecclesiastical, 
and  MacPeters,  who  hailed  from  somewhere  in  the 
South,  became  a  sort  of  imaginary  shield  at  which  he 
delighted  to  tilt  his  lance. 

The  argument  that  had  opened  a  few  minutes  be- 
fore the  attorney's  entrance  promised  to  be  of  unusual 
interest,  for  David,  in  preparation,  had  made  a  little 

79 


DOROTHY 

extra  preparation.  Somewhere  he  had  stumbled  upon 
an  old  doctrinal  book  of  the  "opposition,"  that  had  set 
forth  in  an  unusually  vivid  style  the  grewsome  doctrine 
that  some — do  what  they  might — were  "elected"  to  be 
lost,  not  excepting  the  babies;  indeed  a  still  older 
writer  was  quoted  as  saying  "that  there  were  infants 
in  hell  not  a  span  long."  Of  course,  David  knew  this 
"belief"  was  no  longer  held  by  the  sect  to  which  Mac- 
Peters  gave  his  allegiance,  but  he  recognized  a  fine  op- 
portunity for  a  telling  shot  into  the  enemy's  camp,  and 
bided  his  time,  which  had  come  on  the  morning  of  the 
attorney's  visit.  After  some  light  skirmishing  (during 
which  the  visitor  had  entered)  "David"  suddenly 
straightened  himself  out,  and  said:  "The  trouble  is, 
you  do  n't  know  what  you  believe.  Just  let  me  read 
you  a  few  lines,  and  then  you  '11  know  the  foundation 
of  your  heathenish  doctrines."  So,  producing  the  vol- 
ume from  under  his  coat,  he  proceeded  to  read  the 
offensive  paragraphs.  The  coming  of  no  mere  poli- 
tician could  stem  the  tide  of  words  that  followed.  The 
present  visitor  was  wise  enough  to  stand  aside  while 
the  battle  raged. 

Finally  "David"  drew  himself  up  to  his  full  height, 
and  looking  down  serenely  upon  his  much-flushed  op- 
ponent, said,  in  a  tone  that  indicated  that  the  foray 
need  not  be  prolonged :  "Wall,  I  do  n't  keer  to  hire 
out  to  any  shepherd  that  will  lock  the  old  sheep  up  in 
a  good  warm  pen,  and  turn  the  poor  little  lambs  out 
to  bleat  and  die.  No,  I  ain't  aching  to  work  for  any 
such  a  man." 

The  bystanders  laughed  heartily,  and  the  young 
80 


AN  IMPORTANT  ARRIVAL 

attorney  very  loudly.  But  Dorothy  observed  that  he 
laughed  at  "Long  David"  rather  than  with  him;  at 
"Shorty,"  and  worst  of  all,  at  Uncle  John  himself. 
And  her  young  heart  grew  very  bitter  at  the  discovery. 

"Poah  whites;  yes,  that's  what  he  thinks  us,  and 
I  half  believe  we  are.  No,  we  are  not;  we  are  quite 
as  good  as  he."  By  this  time  Dorothy  was  in  the 
heart  of  the  woodland.  Had  there  been  any  one  to  see, 
she  would  have  summoned  her  pride,  and  kept  back  the 
hot  tears  that  were  already  beginning  to  fall. 

Just  by  the  side  of  the  path,  years  before,  a  tiny 
sprout  of  a  grapevine  had  pushed  its  way  through  the 
mold.  It  had  at  first  appealingly  climbed  about  a  great 
oak  that  stood  near;  then,  becoming  ambitious,  had 
reached  out  its  tendrils  to  the  inviting  branches  of  a 
near-by  beech ;  then,  as  if  it  would  fain  bless  the  world 
other  than  by  its  luscious  fruit,  the  connecting  vine 
between  the  trees  drooped  till  within  a  few  feet  of 
the  ground,  where  it  formed  a  natural  swing.  Each 
year  the  vine  had  grown  stouter,  until  now  its  girth 
was  larger  than  Dorothy's  slender  waist. 

The  shady  wood,  the  inviting  swing,  made  an  ideal 
trysting-place,  and  there,  for  more  than  a  decade,  rustic 
lovers  had  whispered  the  vows  which  are  the  same 
whether  the  scene  be  country  lane  or  crowded  street. 

Into  this  seat  Dorothy  flung  herself.  Her  little 
white  sunbonnet  fell  forlornly  at  her  feet;  she  gave  it 
a  very  decided  kick  into  the  near-by  bushes,  and  sur- 
rendered herself  to  the  storm  of  hurt  and  angry  feel- 
ings which  swayed  her.  Had  the  "circuit  preacher" 

6  8l 


DOROTHY 

been  present,  and  had  he  opened  his  "brimstone  wallet" 
and  "peppered  her  with  sulphur"  (the  country-side's 
picturesque  way  of  describing  the  preacher's  very  faith- 
ful and  frequent  discourses  on  "the  lake  that  burneth 
with  fire  and  brimstone"),  she  might  have  been  awed, 
but  still  she  must  have  yielded  to  the  storm  of  hate 
which  swayed  her. 

She  hated  the  innocent  little  bonnet.  She  hated 
the  coarse  shoes  she  wore  (she  and  Uncle  John  had 
many  a  struggle  over  this  one  item)  ;  she  hated  her 
dress,  different,  though  how  she  scarcely  knew,  from 
that  of  the  dainty  woman  beyond  the  trees ;  but,  above 
all,  she  heated  the  young  man,  who,  she  foresaw,  was 
about  to  rob  her  of  her  one  pleasure,  the  companion- 
ship at  the  "Beeches." 

But  no  form  of  unhappiness  can  long  withstand 
the  wooing  breezes  of  June ;  particularly,  if  borne  upon 
them  is  the  hum  of  returning  honey-laden  bees,  the 
song  of  birds,  and  the  fragrant  comradeship  of  wild 
flowers.  The  young  girl  grew  calmer.  She  settled 
herself  into  a  curve  of  the  swing,  and  began  to  dream — 
at  first  quite  wide  awake,  and  then  in  actual  sleep — 
of  a  time  when  she  might  happily  go  out  of  this  life 
that  seemed  to  her  so  narrow,  so  commonplace,  and  so 
full  of  humiliations. 

Alas!  poor  Dorothy!  That  day  was  nearer  than 
she  thought. 

Meanwhile  another  scene  was  taking  place  in  the 
village.  For  a  full  half  hour,  first  one,  and  then  an- 
other of  the  waiting  loungers  at  the  "Store"  had 
arisen,  at  intervals,  and,  after  yawning,  had  sleepily 
82 


"She  Stilled  Herself  into  a  Curve  of  the  Swing" 


AN  IMPORTANT  ARRIVAL 

remarked,  one  to  another,  "It 's  high  time  that  hack 
was  here."  The  "hack"  was  the  conveyance  that 
made  daily  trips  between  the  village  and  the  nearest 
railroad  point,  carrying  not  only  the  mail,  but  such 
passengers  as  desired  to  make  the  trip.  Close  scrutiny 
finally  revealed  in  the  distance  a  yellow  cloud  of  dust, 
which  prophetically  announced  its  approach. 

In  a  few  minutes  it  had  swung  up  to  the  "Store" 
porch,  and  was  depositing,  not  only  the  mail,  but,  what 
was  of  equal  importance,  a  stranger  as  well.  The 
latter  was  a  well-dressed  young  man,  who  at  once 
looked  about  him  with  a  nonchalant  and  wholly  self- 
satisfied  air,  and  asked  if  any  one  could  direct  him  to 
the  home  of  Professor  Williamson, — as  if  there  were 
a  man,  woman,  or  child  who  could  not! — one  of  the 
bystanders,  in  a  spirit  of  accommodation  (and  of  pos- 
sible curiosity),  seized  his  valise,  and  declaring,  "I'll 
put  you  on  the  right  track  in  less  than  no  time,"  pro- 
ceeded to  accompany  him. 

In  a  few  minutes  the  stranger  had  been  shown  the 
much-traveled  woodland  path,  when  his  guide,  assur- 
ing him  "he  could  not  miss  the  house  if  he  tried," 
returned  bristling  with  information.  The  crowd  soon 
learned  that  the  stranger  was  the  "Missus's"  own 
brother;  that  he  had  just  come  from  a  college  some- 
where; that  he  was  going  to  stay  all  summer;  that  he 
was  a  likely  chap;  and,  finally,  that  they  would  prob- 
ably see  more  of  him. 

Left  alone,  the  young  man  pursued  the  pointed- 
out  path,  eagerly  anticipating  the  happy  surprise  ahead 
(for  his  immediate  arrival  was  unexpected).  Suddenly 

83 


DOROTHY 

he  stopped  short,  and  stared  at  an  apparition  in  front, 
which,  as  the  reader  can  readily  guess,  was  Dorothy — 
Dorothy,  her  storm  of  anger  all  spent,  still  quite  fast 
asleep. 

"Hello!  what  have  we  here?"  he  asked  himself. 
"A  wood-nymph?  Hardly;  most  too  substantial  for 
that,"  was  his  unspoken  thought.  A  sudden  illumina- 
tion passed  over  his  face.  "I  '11  wager,"  said  he,  under 
his  breath,  "one  of  Aunt  Violet's  beaten  biscuits  I  am 
so  soon  to  eat,  that  this  is  the  'little  Dorothy'  of  whom 
they  write  so  frequently.  It  would  be  a  fine  joke  to 
awaken  her  and  have  her  escort  me  to  the  door." 

Looking  about,  the  audacious  young  man  spied  the 
hapless  little  sunbonnet.  A  long  stick  or  pole  by  its 
side  furnished  an  idea.  In  a  moment  the  bonnet  was 
dangling  over  the  young  girl's  face,  now  touching  her 
nose,  now  her  forehead,  and  again  the  tip  of  a  very 
pink  little  ear, — all  this  in  a  manner  that  would  have 
done  credit  to  a  well-trained  "bluebottle." 

It  almost  convulsed  the  young  man  to  watch  "the 
child"  try,  by  a  series  of  vigorous,  sleepy  thrusts,  to  rid 
herself  of  the  intruder.  But  imagine  his  surprise  when 
suddenly  a  slender  young  girl,  almost  or  quite  grown 
up,  sprang  to  her  feet,  and  with  flashing  eyes  looked 
an  interrogation. 

While  he  was  stammering  an  apology,  he  saw  a 
sudden  look  of  recognition  pass  over  the  girl's  face. 
At  this  he  expected  she  would  accept  the  confused 
explanation  he  was  offering;  but,  instead,  the  angry 
flush  deepened,  and  drawing  herself  up  to  her  fullest 
height,  she  frigidly  turned  towards  the  village. 

84 


AN  IMPORTANT  ARRIVAL 

Later,  after  the  subsidence  of  the  "surprise"  in  the 
Williamson  home,  and  after  "Marsa  Clay"  had  been 
served,  as  he  had  expected,  with  a  bowl  of  cream  and 
a  heaped-up  plate  of  biscuits,  and  while  Aunt  Violet, 
in  a  quiver  of  happiness,  sat  watching  him  while  he 
ate,  he  suddenly  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  gave  one 
of  those  happy,  boyish  laughs  that  was  music  to  the 
listening  Violet,  and  then  he  told  her  of  the  meeting 
in  the  woods,  sunbonnet  episode,  and  all. 

"My!  but  she  was  angry!"  he  continued.  "But 
how  was  I  to  know  that  the  'little  Dorothy'  of  the 
home  letters  was  not  a  mere  child?"  he  asked  in  justi- 
fication. "But  there  is  one  thing  about  the  affair  that 
I  do  not  at  all  understand ;  after  she  knew  who  I  was, 
she  was  angrier  than  ever." 

Aunt  Violet  looked  troubled.  She  thought  at  once 
of  her  own  blundering  speech  of  the  morning  and  of 
its  possible  consequences.  Still  she  could  not  but  be- 
lieve, with  "Marsa  Clay"  at  hand  to  right  things,  all 
would  be  well ;  so  she  replied  reassuringly : 

"Doan'  you  worry.  Likely  dat  chile  is  shy  of 
strangers.  Soon  as  she  gets  to  know  you  it  will  be  all 
right." 

Aunt  Violet  was  indeed  an  optimist,  now  that  "her 
own  chile  had  done  come."  She  could  not  imagine  a 
trouble  that  coming  would  not  cure;  besides,  she  had 
another  way  all  her  own  of  bearing  trouble.  Presently 
the  little  party  under  the  "Beeches"  heard  a  weird 
chant  as  she  went  about  her  work. 


DOROTHY 

"It  ain't  so  fur  to  de  Golden  Gate, 
But  de  road  is  rough  and  de  night  is  late, 
En  Satan  holler,  Yo  chance  is  slim, 
Yo'  lamp  won't  burn,  'cause  yo'  lamp  ain't  trim." 

Then  exultantly: 

"O,  believers,  what  yo'  mean? 
Quick!  fill  yo'  lamp,  and  keep  it  clean." 

Aunt  Violet  was  very  happy.  If  over  in  the  village, 
beyond  the  woodland  path,  there  was  a  hurt  and  sorry 
heart,  she  had  quite  forgotten  it. 


86 


CHAPTER  XL 
A  FOURTH  OF  JULY 

PERHAPS  life  holds  no  greater  surprise  than  sud- 
denly to  realize  the  fruition  of  endeavor.  Such  a  sen- 
sation befell  the  village  of  Middletown  when  it  awoke 
to  the  twofold  fact  that  the  "removal  proposition"  had 
actually  carried,  and,  in  consequence,  a  new  life  was 
knocking  at  its  doors. 

For  a  time  not  a  few  of  the  dazed  inhabitants  were 
thrown  quite  out  of  their  usual  grooves.  The  am- 
bitious Mrs.  Mehitable  Perkins  and  the  slack  Mrs. 
Neighbor  quite  forgot  their  weekly  rivalry.  How 
could  it  be  continued  when  the  latter  had  altogether 
forsaken  her  old  habits,  and  spent  most  of  her  time 
in  a  fruitless  attempt  to  keep  abreast  of  each  day's 
happenings,  "only  stopping  somewhere  about  Friday," 
as  Mrs.  Perkins  scornfully  observed,  "to  dabble  out  a 
few  things  for  Sunday." 

Few  had  time  to  stop  at  the  "Store"  for  the  old- 
time  argument,  even  "Long  David"  being  forced,  in 
the  stress  of  events,  to  abandon  for  a  time  his  interest 
in  matters  ecclesiastical. 

If  "David"  were  himself  not  thrifty,  Mrs.  David 
(as  not  infrequently  happens)  made  up  for  the  lack. 
Many  a  marital  storm  had  raged  around  the  one  point 
of  her  liege  lord's  ability  to  forego  family  responsi- 

87 


DOROTHY 

bilities.  "You  'd  a  heap  ruther  set  around  the  stove 
at  the  'Store'  and  whittle  than  to  provide  for  your 
own  family,"  was  her  frequent  withering  comment. 
But  David  would  neither  wither,  nor  heed,  and  she, 
with  bitterness  in  her  heart,  had  through  the  years 
been  forced,  in  such  small  ways  as  the  village  afforded, 
to  eke  out  the  living  for  the  increasing  number  of  little 
Davids. 

Mrs.  David's  poverty  was  doubly  galling  for  more 
than  one  reason.  Besides  her  industry,  which  all  rec- 
ognized, she  had  a  pride  that  none  suspected,  and  with 
it  all  a  certain  financial  acuteness.  In  consequence 
of  this  last,  she  was  one  of  the  first  to  grasp  the  future 
of  the  village.  For  once  her  exhortations  had  some 
effect  upon  her  easy-going  husband,  and  he  began  to 
deny  himself  daily  attendance  at  the  "Store." 

One  morning  a  neighbor,  in  passing,  saw  him  busy 
nailing  some  palings  on  the  garden  fence.  The  sight 
was  so  unusual  that  the  passerby  paused  and  called 
out,  "Hello !  what 's  up  ?"  David  looked  the  ques- 
tioner over  from  head  to  foot,  then  replied  sarcastic- 
ally: 

"I  take  it  you  're  a  stranger  in  Middletown,  else 
you  must  have  heard  how,  before  another  year,  there  's 
going  to  be  a  half-dozen  new  streets,  all  lined  with  new 
houses,  and  we  old  inhabitants  be  a-going  to  double 
our  money  on  our  properties."  Then,  with  a  very 
wise  wink,  he  added,  "As  it 's  sure  going  to  rain  soup, 
neighbor,  my  advice  is  to  go  home  and  get  your  dipper 
up  same  as  mine."  Then  he  looked  about  him  for 
something  else  to  "improve." 


A  FOURTH  OF  JULY 

New  life  was  everywhere  rife  in  the  village. 
Strangers  came  and  went.  Busy  contractors  dropped 
in  unceremoniously  to  "figger"  on  new  buildings.  Am- 
bitious merchants  of  one  kind  and  another  appeared, 
some,  after  a  study  of  the  situation,  setting  up  shop. 
Clearly  the  "Store's"  day  of  supremacy  was  over. 

But  this  mattered  little  to  John  Sumner.  The 
fight  over,  to  which  he  had  lent  his  energies,  he  be- 
came increasingly  apathetic.  Old  friends  who  sought 
him  usually  found  him  in  the  roomy  kitchen,  sitting 
quietly  by  the  western  window,  over  which  trailed  a 
heavy  vine,  which  she  had  planted,  and  where,  on  its 
broad  sill,  still  sat  a  curiously  twisted  willow  basket, 
in  which  lay  a  bit  of  unfinished  work,  and  a  thimble, 
now  growing  dull  from  its  unwonted  rest.  At  such 
times  his  eyes  had  a  far-away,  yearning  look.  Not  one 
who  looked  upon  him  but  knew  that  the  yearning  was 
for  her  whom  he  should  never  again  behold  with  his 
mortal  eyes. 

A  plain  woman,  to  whom  he  had  been  in  a  way 
both  husband  and  child.  A  plain  woman?  Yes,  but 
one  whose  very  garments  had  appeared  to  exhale  com- 
fort for  those  of  her  household. 

Perhaps  the  world  holds  no  higher  meed. 

Seeing  him  thus,  and  oblivious  of  their  presence, 
sympathetic  neighbors  began  to  whisper  among  them- 
selves, and,  with  the  whisper,  each  touched  his  head 
ominously. 

He  had  yet  one  intense  interest.  "My  little  girl," 
he  would  say,  fondly,  as  Dorothy  busied  herself  in 
serving  him.  He  talked  much  to  her,  more  than  in  his 

89 


DOROTHY 

entire  life,  of  the  far-away,  misty  days  of  her  baby- 
hood. Through  it  all  there  was  an  easily  recognized 
note  of  anxiety,  lest  the  now  strong,  supple  girl  should 
love  the  shadowy  past  too  well.  More  and  more  he 
dwelt  on  his  own  part,  in  carrying  in  his  own  arms 
the  little  crying  child  from  its  mother's  grave,  and 
giving  it  shelter  at  his  own  fireside. 

"It  is  all  the  real  good  I  have  ever  done."  Uncle 
John  was  talking  to  a  sleek,  well-groomed  stranger,  a 
Mr.  Barnolde  by  name,  who  had  been  for  several  days 
a  guest  in  the  Sumner  home.  He  was  one  of  the  many 
that  the  new  conditions  of  things  had  floated  into  the 
village.  He  wore  a  white  tie,  a  black  coat,  and  claimed 
the  credentials  of  a  Christian  minister,  by  a  coincidence 
(as  it  developed)  of  that  denomination  which  Uncle 
John  loved.  These,  with  a  highly  pious  manner,  made 
him  a  welcome  guest. 

"Yes,  taking  that  little  child,  and  giving  her  a 
home  was  really  all  the  good  I  have  ever  done,"  re- 
iterated Uncle  John,  mournfully. 

"You  say  well,  my  brother;"  and  the  unctuous 
stranger  rolled  his  eye  in  such  an  excess  of  piety  that, 
had  one  of  the  old-time  saints  been  present,  he  must 
have  slunk  away  in  shame  at  his  unworthiness.  "Yes, 
you  did  well,  you  have  sheltered  one  homeless  child. 
Far  be  it  from  me  to  boast,  but  I  must  tell  you  how, 
through  the  mercy  of  God,  I,  the  humblest  of  His 
creatures,  have  sheltered  hundreds." 

At  this  he  proceeded  to  place  before  his  aroused 
listener  a  graphic  picture  of  a  great  building  in  the 
90 


A  FOURTH  OF  JULY 

midst  of  beautiful  grounds,  in  which  hundreds  of  happy 
children  had  been  at  home,  of  which  it  appeared  he  had 
been  the  great  benevolent  head. 

It  sounded  so  beautiful,  and  harmonized  so  per- 
fectly with  the  now  dominant  chord  in  the  failing 
man's  thought,  that  the  old,  philanthropic  spirit  was 
excited,  and  not  a  day  passed  but  that  the  stranger 
must  needs  repeat  it  all  over  and  over. 

Middletown  now  being  fully  aroused,  the  sentiment 
became  rife  that  something  should  be  done  to  indicate 
to  the  outside  world  their  local  importance.  This 
finally  crystallized  into  preparations  for  the  "biggest 
Fourth  of  July  old  Winfield  County  had  ever  seen;" 
on  which  day  the  corner-stone  of  the  new  court-house 
would  be  laid. 

"The  Professor  must  make  the  speech,"  said  the 
Citizens'  Committee  at  its  first  session.  "By  no 
means,"  objected  the  modest  scholar.  "You  need  some 
one  prominent  in  State  politics,  whose  name  on  the 
posters  will  make  it  impossible  for  the  bitterest  enemy 
of  'removal'  to  stay  away." 

This  seemed  good  advice,  and  the  Committee  at 
once  took  the  matter  under  consideration.  There  was 
to  be  a  new  Governor  elected  the  coming  fall,  or,  if 
the  people  saw  fit,  the  present  one  elected  to  succeed 
himself. 

"Mebbe  His  Excellency,  the  Governor,  would  n't 
mind  coming  down  to  this  neck  o'  the  woods  to  look 
after  his  fences  for  a  spell."  It  was  "Long  David" 
who  made  the  suggestion. 

91 


DOROTHY 

The  idea  "took,"  and  the  Professor  was  asked  to 
write  the  letter  of  invitation.  Perhaps  the  truth  had 
been  scented;  for  in  an  incredibly  short  time  a  letter 
bearing  the  Executive  seal  was  received  and  read  aloud 
in  the  "Store"  (not  without  a  wholesome  awe).  Yes, 
he  would  come.  So  much  being  assured,  the  remainder 
of  the  day's  program  was  easily  arranged. 

That  the  interest  in  the  proposed  celebration  should 
extend  to  the  several  townships,  a  competitive  review 
of  delegations  from  each  was  planned;  this  to  take 
place  on  the  march  to  the  woodland  where  the  "speak- 
ing" would  occur.  A  prize — which  would  probably 
take  the  form  of  a  silken  banner,  though  this  was  left 
to  the  good  taste  of  Mrs.  Williamson — was  to  be  given 
at  the  hand  of  the  Governor  himself  to  the  leader  or 
captain  of  the  largest  and  best  appearing  delegation. 

The  food-supply  of  such  a  gathering  is  always  a 
question  of  importance.  It  was  so  now.  To  evidence 
the  generous  hospitality  of  the  new  county  seat,  a 
"barbecue"  dinner,  free  to  all,  was  decided  upon,  and 
a  committee — each  member  learned  in  the  art — was  ap- 
pointed to  prepare  the  pits  (these  being  veritable  under- 
ground ovens)  in  which  quarters  and  quarters  of  beef 
were  to  be  roasted. 

Of  course  "burgoo  soup"  would  be  supplied.  This 
item  needed  no  discussion,  it  being  well  understood 
that  no  public  gathering  could  be  an  entire  success  if 
this  were  omitted.* 


*This  soup  was  prepared  by  a  judicious  blending  of  chick- 
ens, turkey  (wild  preferred),  rabbits,  squirrels,  pork,  and  any 
other  kind  of  meats  at  hand.     These  were  placed  together  in 
02 


A  FOURTH  OF  JULY 

As  masters  in  the  preparation  of  this  delicacy,  "Long 
David"  and  "Shorty  MacPeters"  held  equal  honors. 
These  readily  agreed  to  drop  all  theological  differences 
for  the  time,  and  be  responsible  for  this  part  of  the 
day's  pleasure. 

All  this,  and  much  more,  huge  posters  in  marvels 
of  red  and  blue  proclaimed  from  each  cross-road  and 
place  of  public  meeting  in  the  county. 

With  the  dawn  of  the  eventful  day,  anxious  eyes 
were  turned  towards  "The  Knobs,"  for  from  behind 
these,  each  morning,  the  sun  crept  up  with  more  or 
less  assurance.  This  morning,  as  if  realizing  its  power 
to  tantalize,  it  lingered  awhile,  then  swept  on  and  up 
into  the  heavens.  By  seven  o'clock  the  streets  were  full 
of  people.  By  ten  the  martial  strains  of  fife  and  drum 
announced  the  near  approach  of,  first  one,  and  then 
another,  rival  delegation,  until  each  township  in  the 
county  was  represented. 

The  review  was  to  occur  in  what  was  known  far 
and  near  as  "Uncle  John's  pasture,"  this  being  an  open 
field  of  perhaps  twenty  acres,  which  lay  back  of  the 
Sumner  home,  and  directly  on  the  way  to  the  wood- 
land beyond.  The  Governor's  carriage  had  been  drawn 
up  close  to  the  side  of  a  driveway,  along  which 
the  delegations  must  pass  where  he  sat — surrounded 
by  not  a  few  "lesser"  lights — ready  for  the  review. 

great  iron  kettles,  which  were  filled  with  water,  and  set  simmer- 
ing fully  twenty-four  hours  before  wanted.  After  these  "  funda- 
mentals," the  seasoning  was  added,  this  being  an  art  in  itself. 
No  modern  chef  has  been  able  to  duplicate  this  old-time  delicacy. 
Each  neighborhood  had  its  local  authority,  who,  on  public  occa- 
sions, took  charge  of  the  preparation  and  directed  the  serving. 

93 


DOROTHY 

The  Committee  had  spent  much  time  on  the  plans 
for  this  event,  and  considered  them  well-nigh  perfect. 
Each  delegation  had  its  own  captain.  Besides  these, 
there  was  a  general  commander  known  as  the  "Mar- 
shal of  the  Day."  The  latter,  as  it  happened,  was  a 
favorite  character  in  the  county.  He  had  been  a  cap- 
tain in  the  late  war,  and,  it  was  well  known,  had  not 
lacked  in  bravery.  His  was  really  a  martial  figure  as 
he  rode  in  and  out  among  the  lines.  At  his  side  flashed 
the  bare  sword,  which  was  popularly  supposed  to  have 
been  often  "bathed  in  gore."  His  head-covering  was 
his  old  "captain's  slouch,"  in  which  a  jagged  hole  told 
of  a  narrow  escape  from  a  bursting  shell.  With  such 
a  leader,  it  was  thought  the  pageant  would  be  one  to 
dwell  forever  in  the  memory  of  man. 

But  who  can  foretell  the  unexpected? 

Coon  Hollow  delegation  was  passing  into  review, 
Plum  Creek  was  following,  and  the  "Knobites"  were 
decorously  swinging  into  line,  when  suddenly  a  farmer, 
in  an  agony  of  fear  over  the  threatened  stampede  of 
his  team,  thought  he  saw  an  opening  ahead  through 
which  he  might  slip  out  of  the  delegation,  and  on  to 
the  woodland,  so,  without  so  much  as  a  "by  your 
leave,"  he  made  a  dash  for  the  opening. 

What  followed  takes  longer  to  recount  than  did 
the  actual  happening.  The  driver  immediately  behind 
halted;  another  turned  out;  another  farther  down  the 
line  called  out  anxiously,  "Are  they  not  going  to  have 
the  review?"  This,  like  the  old  game  of  scandal,  was 
passed  down  the  line  as  "not  going  to  have  the  review," 
and  an  overpowering  desire  to  reach  the  woodland  by 

94 


A  FOURTH  OF  JULY 

the  shortest  possible  route  at  once  took  possession  of 
all.  In  vain  the  marshal  galloped  up  and  down  the 
line,  the  ends  of  his  red  sash  keeping  time  to  his  oscil- 
lations; in  vain  he  explained,  commanded,  threatened, 
and  finally  bathed  the  entire  company  in  that  brand 
of  language  commonly  ascribed  to  troopers;  each  dele- 
gation, with  a  single  exception,  was  effectually  stam- 
peded. 

The  unusual  always  demands  an  explanation. 
When  the  news  was  proudly  carried  to  "The  Knobs" 
that  its  vote  had  been  the  deciding  one  in  the  county 
seat  contest,  each  resident  at  once  felt  a  proprietary 
interest  in  the  new  town,  and,  of  course,  approved 
heartily  of  the  proposed  "celebration."  So,  about  the 
same  hour  that  the  sun  decided  to  be  gracious,  a  dele- 
gation, including  almost  the  entire  population,  left  the 
hills.  The  question  of  a  captain  had  early  settled 
itself.  Who  better  than  young  Robert  Stirling  knew 
the  lay  of  the  land,  and  therefore  who  so  able  to  guide 
to  success? 

Robert  at  first  demurred,  but,  consenting,  threw  his 
entire  self  into  the  preparations.  Strange  that,  amid 
these,  there  should  have  been  ever  before  him  a  single 
face  now  piquant,  now  tender.  Unconsciously  his 
plans  began  to  revolve  around  a  single  pivot,  that  she 
of  the  "piquant,  tender  face"  should  approve,  should 
commend. 

The  goal  reached,  and  the  review  begun,  he  had 
caught  a  glimpse  of  an  apparition  in  pink  and  white. 
An  apparition  it  must  have  been,  else  why  should  the 
heart-blood  hasten  and  the  erstwhile  steady  brain  start 

95 


DOROTHY 

off  on  a  violent  spin,  which,  fortunately  for  "The 
Knobs,"  resolved  itself  into  a  fixed  feeling  that,  if  those 
eyes  were  watching,  he  must  do  his  best. 

At  the  appearance  of  the  confusion  he  hastened  to 
the  side  of  the  marshal.  Learning  that  the  supreme 
desire  was  to  restore  order,  he  at  once  rode  up  and 
down  his  lines  urging  all  to  remain  quiet,  which  they 
did. 

The  Governor  was  already  leaving — a  trifle  dis- 
gusted, it  must  be  confessed,  with  the  turn  of  affairs — 
when  a  very  much  flushed  young  man  rode  up,  and 
after  a  respectful  salute,  called  his  attention  to  a  very 
staid  and  orderly  delegation  (though  a  trifle  motley) 
that  was  passing.  As  he  looked  he  saw  vehicles  whose 
springs  had  been  mended  with  hickory  withes,  farm- 
wagons  of  the  most  primitive  type,  in  which  women 
crouched  upon  the  straw.  There  was  harness,  in  which 
bits  of  rope  helped  out  the  worn  leather.  There  were 
women  in  sunbonnets,  and  serious-eyed  men  clad  in  the 
universal  blue  jeans. 

The  Governor  had  been  more  than  human  had  not 
a  smile  hovered  about  his  mouth — a  smile  which  deep- 
ened into  reminiscent  pathos.  By  a  trick  of  that  nec- 
romancer, Memory,  the  present  blended  with  his  own 
conjured-up  past;  for  it  was  but  yesterday — as  men 
count  time — that  from  a  life  as  barren  as  that  upon 
which  he  now  looked,  he  had  forged  for  himself  a 
place  in  the  State's  foreground. 

He  looked  steadily  at  the  slow-moving  procession; 
then,  turning  to  the  waiting  young  man,  with  a  gra- 
cious bow  he  placed  in  his  hand  the  coveted  prize. 

96 


A  FOURTH  OF  JULY 

It  was  a  dainty  piece  of  silk,  such  as  in  olden  time 
a  lady  might  have  given  to  her  knight  as  he  rode  away 
to  battle.  In  color  it  was  blue  like  the  sky  above.  In 
the  center  were  certain  quaint  letters  done  in  .silken 
white.  They  spelled  the  single  word  "Success." 

Was  this  to  be  a  talisman? 


97 


CHAPTER  XII. 
AN  INCIDENT  OR  TWO 

BARRING  the  unfortunate  incident  of  the  morning, 
the  "celebration"  was  throughout  an  unprecedented 
success. 

The  company  was  not  so  sufficiently  modern  as 
to  have  lost  its  interest  in  the  "Immortal  Document;" 
therefore  it  listened  attentively  to  its  reading,  and  did 
not  fail  to  applaud  the  sentiment,  "We  hold  these 
truths  to  be  self-evident,  that  all  men  are  created 
equal;"  following  this,  as  if  it  had  been  one 
great  voice,  it  sang  "America"  with  great  fervor. 
The  Civil  War  was  as  yet  not  far  in  the  back- 
ground, so  there  were  many  present  in  suits  of 
"Union  blue,"  battered  mementos  of  march,  of  bivouac, 
and  of  battle,  worn  only  on  "state  occasions"  like  the 
present.  The  wearers  of  these  might  be  pardoned  if, 
with  an  emphasis  on  the  "My,"  their  voices  contrib- 
uted not  a  little  to  that  fervor. 

The  governor  that  was,  and  was  to  be  (each  citizen 
so  decided  before  the  speech  was  half  over)  was  at  his 
best ;  and  at  the  close  of  the  address  showed  his  democ- 
racy by  such  a  handshaking  as  "old  Winfield"  had 
never  seen.  Later,  at  the  hour  fixed,  the  people  surged 
about  the  site  of  the  new  court-house,  watching  the 

98 


AN  INCIDENT  OR  TWO 

ceremonies  attendant  upon  the  placing  of  the  corner- 
stone, which  all  dimly  foresaw  marked  a  new  era,  not 
only  for  Middletown,  but  for  the  county  as  well. 

All  these  "duties"  being  accomplished,  the  simple 
pleasures  of  the  day  were  due.  The  "underground 
ovens"  did  their  part  well,  and  "juicier  meat,"  it  was 
declared,  was  never  eaten.  During  the  entire  day  ap- 
preciative crowds  surged  about  the  improvised  stands 
where  busy  helpers  handed  out  dippers  full  of  steam- 
ing "burgoo." 

At  all  this  the  Williamsons  were  thoroughly  inter- 
ested onlookers,  even  Aunt  Violet  being  present,  al- 
though it  had  required  a  good  deal  of  persuasion  to 
induce  her  to  attend. 

"Why,  Aunty,  would  you  treat  a  governor  with  so 
much  disrespect?  Here  he  comes  almost  to  your  own 
door,  and  yet  you  think  to  stay  at  home!" 

It  was  the  Professor  who  made  this  final  remon- 
strance. Finally  she  gave  a  reluctant  consent,  not 
wholly  owing,  however,  to  family  persuasions  (though 
this  last  was  unsuspected).  Among  the  "big  goin's 
on"  at  the  old  home,  which  the  memory  of  the  exiled 
Violet  made  the  most  of,  was  a  visit  to  the  plantation 
by  the  Governor  of  the  State  (a  college  friend  of  the 
"old  Marsa's"),  accompanied  by  a  party  of  charming 
women  and  no  less  charming  men.  Violet  still  had 
visions  of  dainty,  white-gowned  women  lounging  under 
the  shady  balconies,  of  leisurely  drives,  and  of  rides 
in  which  cavalier  and  lady  yet  formed  reminiscent 
pictures,  and  of  great  neighborhood  gatherings  in  honor 
of  the  distinguished  guests.  Ah!  what  "goin's  on" 

99 


DOROTHY 

these  had  been!     She  could  catch  even  yet,  at  times, 
tantalizing  whiffs  from  the  great  kitchen. 

And  now  a  "govenah"  was  coming  as  the  Professor 
said,  almost  to  her  back  door;  "another  govenah,"  of 
course,  but  still  a  man  of  consequence.  So  she,  who 
dearly  loved  a  title,  at  length  set  out  to  attend.  She 
was  dressed  for  the  occasion  in  her  "robes  of  state." 
With  a  skill  of  her  own,  she  had  bound  deftly  about 
her  head  a  prized  silk  bandana,  itself  a  relic  of  happier 
days;  the  ends  of  still  another  met  and  were  drawn, 
not  without  grace,  over  her  breast.  An  immaculate 
white  linen  apron  came  quite  to  the  hem  of  her  "stuff" 
dress.  Thus  attired,  and  with  the  eagerness  not  pos- 
sible to  be  eliminated  from  her  face,  she  might  have 
posed  as  a  model  of  "Expectation."  With  due  mod- 
esty, she  settled  herself  in  an  inconspicuous  place,  where 
undisturbed  she  might  see  and  hear  all. 

"Dat  a  govenah?  Humph!"  was  her  first  com- 
ment. She  had  seen  a  tall,  plainly  dressed  man  enter 
the  stand,  and  her  quick  eye  had  caught  the  deference 
paid  him,  and  had  so  singled  him  out.  She  had  also 
been  quick  to  note — alas  for  her  peace  of  mind! — the 
brown,  calloused  hand  and  the  telltale  stoop  of  the 
shoulders  that  had  been  his,  since,  wrhen  too  young  a 
lad,  he  had  wearily  followed  the  plow  over  a  stumpy 
field. 

"Humph!"  It  would  be  hard  to  read  into  the 
exclamation  all  that  it  revealed  of  the  perturbed  Vio- 
let's heart  emotions;  for  disappointment  and  homesick- 
ness were  at  the  moment  fighting  for  mastery  beneath 
the  neatly  pinned  kerchief. 

IOO 


AN  INCIDENT  OR  TWO 

But,  whatever  her  feelings,  she  knew  her  "man- 
ners" well  enough  to  sit  statue-like  throughout  the 
really  eloquent  speech. 

At  its  close,  though  she  was  among  the  first  who 
rose  to  go,  her  immediate  egress  was  checked  by  the 
great  crowd  of  people,  eager  to  take  part  in  the  prof- 
fered handshaking,  at  which  permitted  familiarity  this 
disciple  of  decorum  was  frankly  amazed.  As  she  stood 
with  folded  hands,  looking  her  displeasure,  it  happened 
that  a  little  child  caught  sight  of  her  statuesque,  ebony 
face,  and,  connecting  it  with  some  hobgoblin  of  nursery 
tale,  began  to  scream.  In  the  confusion  that  followed 
the  efforts  of  the  mother  to  soothe,  an  inkling  of  the 
reason  of  the  fright  was  borne  to  the  innocent  cause. 

It  certainly  was  not  "dignity"  that  at  the  unfortu- 
nate revelation,  sought  the  shortest  cut  to  the  Pro- 
fessor's back  door;  for  dignity,  it  is  said,  is  never  in 
a  hurry! 

An  hour  later  "Mis'  Milicent"  looked  in  on  a 
strange  scene.  Though  it  was  a  July  day,  a  heavy 
fire  roared  in  the  kitchen  stove.  Spices  were  scattered 
heedlessly  over  the  table,  and  a  streak  of  flour  orna- 
mented the  cook's  forehead,  who,  unconscious  of  the 
unusual,  stood  beating  (pommeling  would  be  better) 
some  luckless  batter. 

"Why,  Aunt  Violet,  what  are  you  doing?"  No 
response.  "Why,  I  thought — I  thought,"  the  "Mis- 
sus" hesitated — for  the  old  servant  could  at  times  lay 
down  very  emphatic  boundary  lines,  over  which  even 
she  dared  not  cross — "I  thought  you  were  at  the  'cele- 
bration.' " 

101 


DOROTHY 

"'Celebration,'  humph!  Go  'long,  honey;  go 
'long!  I  'se  got  to  do  something  to  d'stact  my  mind; 
clar  out !"  and  she  waved  her  black  hand  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  mistress's  own  room.  "And  say,  Mis' 
Millicent,  Mis'  Millicent!"  she  called,  for  the  mistress 
had  already  disappeared  (knowing  it  to  be  the  part 
of  wisdom  to  await  an  explanation  till  the  "storm" 
had  blown  over),  "you  tell  Marsa  Professah  I  doan' 
want  him  to  talk  to  me  any  mo'  about  this  kind  of 
quality.  I  knows  'em;  they  ain't  ouah  kind  of  folks, 
and  they  never  will  be,  even  if  he  keeps  on  a-teachin' 
of  'em  till  his  haar  is  gray;  so  there!"  Having  thus 
asserted  her  authority  and  relieved  her  mind,  she 
turned  with  renewed  vigor  to  the  mixture  in  hand, 
from  which  was  to  be  evolved  her  favorite  "spice-loaf." 

There  was  yet  one  other  to  whom  the  day  was 
destined  to  bring  disappointment,  and  that  one,  not- 
withstanding the  success  of  the  morning,  was  Robert 
Stirling.  For  this,  as  the  reader  knows,  there  could 
be  but  one  source,  Dorothy.  Yet  not  Dorothy  alone, 
as  it  turned  out,  but  Dorothy  and — strange  as  it  may 
appear — the  handsome,  debonnaire  young  stranger  at 
the  "Beeches."  During  the  weeks  that  had  intervened 
since  the  latter's  arrival,  Dorothy  had  kept  herself 
entirely  aloof.  The  family  had  commented  upon  this 
more  than  once,  but  none  (unless  possibly  Violet) 
thought  of  connecting  this  unusual  reserve  with  Clay's 
presence.  The  young  man  was,  in  truth,  puzzled. 
It  certainly  was  not  like  the  Dorothy  of  his  sister's 
letters  to  make  so  much  of  a  mere  prank.  It  would  be 
more  to  the  point,  he  argued,  for  her  to  accept  the 
102 


AN  INCIDENT  OR  TWO 

joke  and  plan  some  retaliatory  move.  However,  he 
soon  received  an  enlightenment.  On  a  certain  day 
he  had  gone  into  Violet's  own  quarters,  and,  throwing 
himself  down  before  a  table,  had  declared  himself  in 
a  condition  bordering  on  starvation,  to  avert  which 
threatened  calamity  Violet  hastened  to  place  before 
him  "a  bit  of  a  snack,"  a  something  not  to  be  despised, 
as  Clay  concluded  when  a  half  chicken,  a  quarter  of 
a  pie,  and  a  jar  of  jam  ranged  themselves  before  him. 
But  still  he  was  not  happy.  The  truth  was,  he  had 
another  sort  of  hunger. 

"Aunt  Violet,"  he  said  at  length,  "it 's  awfully 
lonesome  here  without  a  fellow,  or  a" — he  hesitated — 
"girl  in  sight.  I  say,"  gathering  courage,  "why  does 
that  Dorothy  you  have  all  talked  so  much  about  keep 
herself  so  scarce?  She  has  not  been  here,  as  you  know, 
since  I  came.  Do  you  suppose  she  is  really  offended 
at  the  little  trick  I  played  her?" 

Violet  paused  in  the  act  of  cutting  the  second  slice 
of  bread;  a  peculiar  expression  passed  over  her  face. 
Quite  unsuspected  by  the  family  she  had  been  carry- 
ing, as  we  know,  her  own  little  secret,  and  secrets  are 
seldom  pleasant  companions.  Instantly  she  saw  a 
chance  to  drop  her  burden. 

"You  see,  Marsa  Clay,"  she  began,  not  without 
diplomacy,  "dat  chile  is  just  nacherly  grievin'  for  her 
folks.  Yo'  see,"  lowering  her  voice  to  suit  the  im- 
plied calamity,  "she  hain't  got  none." 

This  astounding  declaration  was  at  once  followed 
by  the  incoherent  babyhood  story  of  the  young  girl, 
told  with  many  a  flourish  of  the  narrator's  own.  But 
103 

\ 


DOROTHY 

what  was  this  Clay  was  hearing?  For  Violet,  now 
that  she  was  launched,  was  not  to  be  shaken  from  her 
purpose  of  making  a  full  confession — a  confession  that 
would  not  be  complete  until  Clay's  own  little  innocent 
joke  about  "Turkey  Crik"  (forgotten  as  soon  as  writ- 
ten) had  been  recalled. 

'I  jes'  done  tole  her  dat  same  mawnin'  yo'  come,'" 
Violet  added,  regretfully,  "and  she  done  shut  her  lips 
dat  tight,  and  hole  her  head  dat  high,  I  see  in  a  minute 
she  plum'  misunderstood ;  for  co'se  yo'  doan'  think  she 
is  like  dem  low-down  white  folks  down  yonder," — 
her  term  for  the  South.  "Honey,  dat  chile  is  mighty 
nigh  like  ouah  own  folks." 

"Well!  here  is  a  fine  situation!"  Clay  spoke  almost 
to  himself;  the  confession  had  made  all  very  plain. 
Clearly  the  task  before  him,  if  he  would  reinstate  him- 
self in  the  girl's  good  graces,  would  not  be  easy. 
"Well,  Aunty,  do  n't  worry" — for  Violet  was  watch- 
ing him  anxiously — "I  will  make  it  my  business  to 
hunt  up  this  troublesome  young  lady,  and  straighten 
this  out." 

"But  what  if  she  won't  make  up?  Girls  is  mighty 
queer  when  they  gets  sot." 

Clay  smiled,  then  his  lips  closed  as  tightly  as 
Dorothy's  own.  "Then  I  '11  make  her,  that 's  all," 
was  his  response. 

Violet,  watching  him  as  he  strode  away,  did  not 
at  all  doubt  his  ability. 

Besides  the  surface  desire  of  setting  himself  right, 
in  his  heart  Clay  owned  yet  another.  The  tedium  of 
the  quiet  life  was  becoming  irksome.  His  sister's  let- 
104 


AN  INCIDENT  OR  TWO 

ters  had  been  full  of  the  rustic  beauty  of  the  scenery 
about,  and  she  had  urged  him  to  make  the  visit.  To 
do  so  he  had  been  obliged  to  forego  a  pleasure  he  and 
his  room-mate  had  been  long  planning,  this  being  a 
visit  to  the  latter's  home,  which  was  in  the  South,  and 
not  far  from  what  had  been  his  own  home  neighbor- 
hood, and  where  a  large  circle  of  young  friends  were 
ready  to  welcome  him.  His  sister's  last  letter  had  been 
the  deciding  one.  She  had  written :  "Come  for  the 
summer;  Dorothy  will  show  you  where  the  black- 
berries grow  the  largest  and  the  sweetest;  in  what 
pools  the  fish  love  to  hide ;  and  you  and  she  may  race 
the  ponies  over  the  country  roads."  And  now  there 
bade  fair  to  be  no  Dorothy,  and  she  the  central  figure 
in  the  rustic  picture !  Clearly  he  must  hasten  to  set 
himself  right.  But,  seek  for  it  as  he  might,  the  cov- 
eted opportunity  did  not  come. 

But  it  would  be  strange,  Clay  thought,  if  the 
"celebration" — of  which  all  Middletown  was  talking, 
and  of  course  planning  to  attend — did  not  bring  it; 
and  each  intervening  day  found  him  dwelling  on  the 
expected  meeting.  And  thus  it  happened  that  if  Robert 
was  ever  on  the  alert  for  a  certain  bright  face,  none 
the  less  was  the  young  stranger  at  the  "Beeches"  as 
he  wandered  in  and  out  among  the  happy  groups. 

The  day,  which  throughout  had  been  to  him  a 
source  of  amusement  as  well  as  a  puzzle,  was  well-nigh 
spent,  when  at  last,  by  a  turn  in  the  path,  he  suddenly 
came  face  to  face  with  her  whom  he  sought,  and,  happy 
coincidence,  she  was  alone!  She  was  about  to  pass 
with  frigid  bow,  when,  with  an  air  of  great  ceremony, 
105 


DOROTHY 

he  removed  his  jaunty  cap  from  his  head,  and  salaamed 
very  low,  as  if  he  were  a  subject  addressing  royalty. 
Dorothy  paused  in  sheer  amazement.  At  once  he 
spoke. 

"Will  not  Her  Majesty  pause  while  an  abject  sub- 
ject makes  an  apology?"  Of  course  she  paused,  doubts 
of  his  sanity  beginning  to  form  in  her  mind.  "Hon- 
estly, Miss  Dorothy,"  he  said,  resuming  his  natural 
tone,  "there  is  an  apology  due  you.  Sit  down,  will 
you,  while  I  make  it?"  (They  had  by  chance  met  in 
front  of  the  great  swing,  where  their  first  unfortunate 
meeting  had  occurred.) 

"Yes,  an  apology."  This  in  answer  to  her  look  of 
questioning  surprise.  "And  let  it  take  the  form  of  an 
explanation.  You  see,  when  a  fellow  has  been  getting 
letters  from  home  for  a  year,  and  in  each  of  which  the 
writers  have  taken  pains  to  talk  of  no  one,  or  of 
nothing,  so  much  as  of  a  certain  individual  they  call 
"little  Dorothy,"  it  becomes  a  very  sad  mistake  when 
the  misguided  young  man  at  length  comes  home,  ex- 
pecting to  find  a  "dear  little  slip  of  a  girl,"  with  whom 
he  can  romp,  and  finds  instead  a  grown-up  young  lady; 
and,  what  is  worse,  a  'frozen'  young  lady,  and,  worse 
still,  one  who  refuses  to  thaw  out.  Yes,  I  did  make 
a  grievous  mistake,"  he  continued.  "But,"  and  now 
his  voice  grew  very  low,  "it  seems  to  me  even  such  a 
sin  might  be  forgiven  in  a  Christian  land,  especially 
if  the  sinner  happens  to  be  very  sorry,  and  he  is;  and 
that  is  what  I  wanted  to  tell  you." 

A  pair  of  brown,  compelling  eyes  were  looking 
very  earnestly  into  a  pair  of  blue  ones.  The  blue  began 
1 06 


AN  INCIDENT  OR  TWO 

to  falter,  then  suddenly  to  kindle  with  defiance. 
"Turkey  Crik,"  and  the  humiliation  implied,  had  been 
recalled. 

"I  did  not  care  so  much  for  the  mistake,",  she  said, 
stiffly;  "but — but — " 

"But  what?"  interposed  Clay. 

"O  well,  we  country  people  'amuse'  you,  and  some- 
way I  do  n't  quite  appreciate  such  a  mission." 

"Dorothy,  you  are  dreaming." 

But  she  would  not  be  interrupted. 

"It  is  as  if  God  had  set  such  as  you  on  some  high 
pedestal,  some  vantage  ground  of  superiority,  and  given 
you  leave,  as  a  source  of  entertainment,  to  watch  and 
enjoy  the  hapless  attempts  at  life  of  a  race  of  inferiors ; 
to  take  note  of  our  habits  of  speech;  to  draw  pictures 
of  us." 

Clay  winced;  he  remembered  that  only  yesterday 
he  had  drawn  a  rather  airy  sketch  of  "Long  David" 
in  one  of  his  most  striking  attitudes.  Clearly  if  he 
would  carry  his  point  and  win  the  friendship  of  the 
girl  by  his  side,  he  must  stem  the  tide  of  her  bitter- 
ness so  fully  revealed.  Finally  he  managed  to  say: 

"Dorothy,  all  this  is  without  cause.  You  have 
lived  too  much  among  your  books,  and  not  enough 
among  people.  You  have  cultivated  your  imagination, 
and  allowed  your  heart  to  grow  bitter  at  fancied 
slights.  What  if  I  do  laugh  at  Long  David's  speeches, 
at  his  drawl,  and,  if  you  please,  at  the  highly  original 
ideas  of  his  tailor.  There  are  'odd'  people  the  world 
over." 

"It  is  all  right."  Dorothy  rose  to  go,  but  a  de- 
107 


DOROTHY 

taining  hand  held  her.  "Long  David  and  the  rest  may 
fight  their  own  battles;  I  am  not  called  upon  to  do 
anything  of  the  kind ;  but  I — I  hate  'superior'  people." 

It  was  a  rude  speech,  and  Dorothy  could  have  bit 
her  lips  with  chagrin  the  moment  it  was  uttered.  "I 
beg  pardon;  I  did  not  mean — "  Again  she  essayed  to 
go,  but  again  a"  hand  detained  her,  and  this  time  not 
gently. 

"Dorothy  Sumner!"  and  there  was  a  touch  of  im- 
periousness  as  well  as  reproof  in  the  tone,  "this  is 
worse  than  nonsense.  Here  you  are,  yourself  an  alien, 
your  ancestral  home  thousands  of  miles  away."  Dor- 
othy flashed  a  quick  look  of  inquiry  upon  him.  "O, 
you  need  not  look  surprised ;  I  know  all  about  you. 
Little  stranger  that  you  are,  you  are  by  far  too  ready 
to  flash  swords  in  behalf  of  these  good  people,  with 
whom  your  lot  has  been  so  strangely  cast,  and  to  sus- 
pect a  critic  when  none  appears." 

He  had  been  quick  to  note  her  look  of  genuine  dis- 
may at  what  she  thought  her  rudeness,  and  as  quick 
to  take  advantage.  His  voice  became  coaxing.  "Be  a 
good  Samaritan.  I  am  so  lonesome;  take  your  old 
place  at  the  'Beeches,'  and  for  this  summer  be  my  com- 
rade, my  chum,  my  little  sister." 

Then  a  strange  thing  happened.  As  the  blue  eyes 
softened — for  soften  they  did — she  forgot  the  pleading 
voice  at  her  side;  for  the  words  "alien,"  "stranger," 
had  been  talismanic.  With  their  utterance  she  forgot 
the  present,  and  once  more  caught  a  glimpse  of  an  open 
doorway  with  the  ever-present  little  child  playing  about 
1 08 


AN  INCIDENT  OR  TWO 

it,  and  now  the  sweet  face  of  misty  memories  seemed 
very  close  to  her  own. 

He,  the  young  man  by  her  side,  had  said  that  he 
was  lonely.  Ah!  how  lonely  she  had  been!  Finally 
the  blue  eyes  lifted  themselves  slowly,  all  resentment 
vanishing  with  the  movement;  and  he  of  the  brown, 
looking  into  their  depths,  knew  that  he  had  won. 

"Too  wise  to  argue  farther,"  he  said,  gayly.  "Now 
let 's  shake  hands  on  all  this,  and  the  compact  is 
sealed." 

The  tone  was  a  laughing  one,  so,  with  her  natural 
friendliness,  Dorothy  laid  her  hand  in  the  one  already- 
outstretched.  The  hand  she  gave  was  well-shaped, 
soft,  and  cool,  though  a  trifle  brown  perhaps.  All  this 
the  young  man  noted  in  the  instant  it  lay  in  his.  An 
"instant,"  but  what  may  not  happen  even  in  so  short 
a  space  of  time? 

Just  as  the  compact  was  being  sealed,  who  should 
come  around  the  clump  of  trees  that  acted  as  a  screen 
for  the  swing  but  Robert  Stirling.  Robert,  who,  at 
last  free  from  the  demands  of  his  somewhat  trouble- 
some constituency,  had  found  time  for  that  of  which 
he  had  dreamed,  and  for  which  the  day  had  dawned. 
Somewhere  within  the  shady  grove  he  knew  he  should 
find  Dorothy — winsome  Dorothy! 

Ah!  the  surprised  hurt  of  finding  her  as  he  did! 

For  a  full  minute  he  stood  as  if  unable  to  move, 
then,  in  the  pride  given  him  at  the  moment,  he  made 
as  if  in  search  of  some  one,  turned  and  passed  on. 

Seeing  him  thus,  the  girl  blushed  to  the  roots  of 
109 


DOROTHY 

her  hair.  Intuitively  she  had  read  Robert's  conclu- 
sions. They — that  is,  she  and  Clay — were,  as  she  had 
quite  forgotten  in  the  stress  of  the  conversation,  in  the 
"Lovers'  swing."  This  meant  much  in  rustic  tra- 
dition. But,  infinitely  worse,  he  had  appeared  at  the 
instant  of  the  fateful  handclasp. 

She  well  knew  that  no  other  evidence  would  be 
necessary  in  the  court  of  rustic  public  opinion  to  decide 
this  as  one  more  of  the  many  "lovers'  scenes"  the 
gnarled  old  swing  had  known. 

Her  companion  noted  her  confusion,  and,  not  being 
"rustic  wise,"  at  once  connected  it  with  the  overgrown 
youth  who  had  so  quickly  disappeared. 

"Dorothy,  you  little  cheat,  I  believe  you  have  a 
sweetheart.  Come,  let 's  go  over  to  the  'Beeches'  and 
sneak  a  plate  of  Aunt  Violet's  biscuits,  and  you  must 
tell  me  all  about  it." 

"There  is  nothing  to  tell;  indeed  there  is  not," 
she  reiterated  over  and  over,  until  Clay,  now  quite  the 
jolly  comrade,  was  willing  to  accept  the  denial,  more- 
over with  a  satisfaction  he  did  not  stop  to  analyze. 

O,  Dorothy!  and  was  that  homeward  walk,  so 
sweet  to  the  memory  of  the  other,  quite  "nothing?" 
Or  was  the  denial  merely  made  to  still  the  beatings  of 
a  tumultuous  heart? 

The  answer  lies  with  the  oncoming  years. 


IIO 


CHAPTER  XIII. 
ROBERT  AND  DOROTHY 

"This  is  true  the  wide  world  over, 
One  is  beloved  and  one  is  the  lover." 

ANGER,  astonishment,  and  dismay  struggled  to- 
gether in  the  heart  of  Robert  Stirling  as,  with  an  im- 
petuous stride,  he  took  himself  away  from  the  presence 
of  Dorothy  and  the  stranger.  In  this  hour  of  wounded 
self-pride,  how  he  hated  himself  for  harboring  that 
strange,  strong  something,  which,  wholly  unbidden, 
had  walked  boldly  into  his  heart  and  had  presumed 
to  dominate  his  life.  "Yes,  had  dominated  it,"  he  in 
bitterness  acknowledged  to  himself. 

There  had  been  something  more  than  mere  love 
of  knowledge,  he  confessed,  that  had  held  him  to  the 
school,  when  the  stony  little  farm  had  issued  its  spring- 
time call.  Nor  had  he,  he  told  himself,  at  heart  cared 
a  straw  about  the  location  of  the  miserable  old  county 
seat. 

In  this  hour  of  self-abasement  he  grimly  acknowl- 
edged that  for  months  he  had  not  had  a  plan  or  hope 
but  that  in  and  out  of  it  had  flitted  a  bright  face,  a 
shapely  brown  head,  a  pair  of  eyes  that  now  laughed 
at  him,  or  flashed  a  championship  (sadly  needed,  he 
knew,  in  those  first  few  months  of  his  school  life),  or 
III 


DOROTHY 

looked  approval  when  he  led,  as  it  became  his  habit  to 
do,  in  school-work. 

But  now  the  foundation  upon  which  these  foolish 
dreams  had  been  builded  was,  with  one  stroke,  sud- 
denly swept  away.  "In  some  way,"  he  said  to  himself 
savagely,  as  he  strode  on,  "the  miserable  network  shall 
be  torn  away,  and  he  would,"  he  told  himself,  "get 
back  where  he  was  before  the  sweet  enthrallment  be- 
gan." For  that  it  had  been  sweet  he  did  not  try  to 
deny. 

Alas,  Robert!  you  have  to  learn,  as  has  many  an 
older,  that  we  never  "get  back."  Let  experience  but 
write  with  her  stern,  unyielding  finger  upon  that  quiv- 
ering thing  we  call  our  heart,  and,  lo!  forever  after 
we  are  another  self ! 

That  the  two,  whom  he  had  just  seen,  were  lovers 
he  did  not  question.  Had  he  not  seen  the  little  hand 
creep  into  the  soft  white  one  of  the  stranger?  Why 
should  he  not  win  her,  and  that  swiftly^  as  the  brief 
weeks  indicated — he,  with  his  easy  air  of  superiority, 
his  cultured  bearing  so  different  from  his  own?  and 
why  should  he  not  desire  to  win  one  in  every  way  so 
charming  ?  At  this  he  paused ;  his  world  had  not  been 
so  small  but  that  he  knew  there  were,  here  and  there, 
pitifully  small  creatures  who  thought  it  rare  pleasure 
to  win  love  that  they  might  cast  it  aside.  For  an 
instant  he  forgot  his  trouble  in  the  thought.  If  such 
were  the  design  of  the  careless  young  man  yonder,  he 
had  best  beware.  There  was  hot  blood  coursing  in 
other  veins  than  his ! 

How  the  remainder  of  the  spoiled  day  was  spent, 

112 


ROBERT  AND  DOROTHY 

Robert  never  knew.  The  hill  people  were  troublesome 
with  questions,  and  he  answered  them  with  an  im- 
patience foreign  to  him. 

Mother  eyes  are  quick  to  see,  and  it  did  not  long 
escape  the  little  woman  in  black  that  something  had 
gone  very  wrong;  but  she  forbore  to  ask,  knowing 
that,  whatever  the  trouble,  she  would  finally  share  it. 
Later  she  thought  she  had  an  inkling  of  the  situation, 
when  a  much-at-ease  couple  sauntered  slowly  by.  The 
girl  she  knew  as  "the  Dorothy"  of  the  Seminary,  but 
her  companion  was  a  stranger. 

Yet,  had  she  known  it,  the  sauntering  was  very 
innocent.  Dorothy  had  ventured  to  declare  "burgoo" 
a  greater  delicacy  than  Southern  biscuits.  The  last 
had  been  sampled  in  the  shade  of  the  "Beeches,"  and 
when  the  mother  saw  them  the  two  were  en  route  for 
the  final  comparison. 

As  they  passed,  Robert  was  but  a  little  distance 
away.  Seeing  them,  he  bent  yet  a  little  more  closely 
over  the  articles  he  was  collecting  for  the  homeward 
drive.  As  he  did  so,  his  eyes  fell  upon  the  silken  token 
he  had  only  that  morning  received  at  the  hands  of  the 
governor — so  long  ago  it  seemed  an  age. 

The  sight  of  the  unoffending  silk,  particularly  its 
mocking  inscription,  maddened  him.  "Success!  what 
a  farce!"  he  muttered  between  his  teeth.  Then,  seiz- 
ing the  hapless  talisman,  he  crumpled  it  into  a  ball, 
and,  hurling  it  from  him,  turned  savagely  to  his  prepa- 
rations. If  Robert  were  so  disturbed,  what  of  the  in- 
nocent cause  of  it  all? — (for  she  was,  in  all  truth,  at 
least  until  the  moment,  "innocent").  Sentiment,  as 
8  113 


DOROTHY 

the  world  counts  sentiment,  and  as  Robert  had  that 
day  in  his  battle  with  self  counted  it,  had  as  yet  no 
part  in  her  life.  Until  now  her  heroes  had  been  heroes 
of  great  deeds.  Men  and  women  had  passed  before 
her  in  the  pageantry  of  the  written  page,  without 
awakening  a  self-conscious  thought.  In  a  sense  she 
was  still  the  child  Clay  Worthington  had  expected  to 
meet.  And  it  was  this  rare  quality  of  ingenuousness, 
this  childlike  responsiveness,  that  had  so  appealed  to 
the  Williamsons,  and  made  them  blind  to  the  fact  that 
she  was  perilously  near  that  crucial  point  where  "brook 
and  river  meet." 

But  what  right  had  Robert,  more  than  another, 
to  question  her  friendship  with  another?  In  one  sense, 
none;  in  another,  much.  That  from  his  first  days  at 
the  Seminary  she  had  been  his  friendly  champion  he 
knew,  and  it  had  meant  much  to  him.  He  did  not 
suspect  that  this  championship  had  had  its  origin 
largely  in  the  Professor's  approval,  for  that  the  latter 
approved  of  the  "boy  from  The  Knobs,"  who  so  soon 
distanced  the  best  pupils  of  the  village,  was  very  evi- 
dent. This  of  itself  settled  matters  once  for  all  with 
Dorothy.  Then  had  followed  the  coup  of  "The 
Knobs"  vote.  With  a  flutter  of  the  heart,  which  she 
would  have  stoutly  denied,  she  intuitively  caught  the 
"personal  element"  in  the  act,  though  this  she  did  not 
acknowledge  even  to  herself. 

"It  was  certainly  a  fine  act,"  she  told  herself,  and 

somehow  she  must  let  the  actor  know  her  approval. 

So,  on  the  evening  of  the  spelling-match,  when  more 

than  one  of  the  girls  told  her,  as  they  were  busy  about 

114 


ROBERT  AND  DOROTHY 

the  matter  of  wraps,  and  with  a  series  of  giggles,  that 
the  "Knobite"  was  waiting  to  see  her  home,  and  that 
she  'd  never  dare,  she  calmly  walked  out  of  the  door, 
and,  with  the  utmost  indifference  to  all  critics — dared. 
But  is  a  woman's  nature  but  a  complex  set  of 
springs,  which,  if  the  hour  and  touch  be  right,  readily 
responds,  and  forever  after  vibrates  to  that  tune  we 
call  joy,  or  to  its  more  somber  sister  sorrow? 

When  night  had  fallen  upon  the  day  of  the  "cele- 
bration," when  the  stars  had  come  out,  and  the  placid 
moon  looked  down  on  the  little  village,  now  strangely 
quiet  after  the  day's  turmoil,  Dorothy  in  her  own  little 
room  sat  very  still  by  the  open  window.  Presently 
she  arose,  and  turned  toward  a  drawer.  She  took 
from  this  a  curiously  carved  box,  and  began  to  undo 
its  fastenings. 

It  had  belonged  to  her  mother.  In  it  was  a  daintily 
made  child's  dress.  She  had  worn  it,  so  she  had  been 
told,  when  "Uncle  John"  had  carried  her  from  her 
mother's  grave;  besides  this,  there  were  letters,  most 
of  them  written  by  the  young  husband  to  her  of  the 
sweet  and  gentle  face.  There  were  a  few  other  trink- 
ets gathered  during  the  short  life  of  the  young  girl. 
But  Dorothy  was  in  no  mood  to  read  the  letters, 
though  this  she  had  often  done,  nor  even  to  look  once 
more  at  the  two  young  faces  that  smiled  at  her  from 
a  quaint  old  daguerreotype.  But  taking  each  article 
out  slowly,  one  by  one,  she  stood  as  if  lost  in  thought ; 
then  carefully,  as  if  the  very  walls  might  see,  she  took 
from  the  folds  of  her  dress  a  cherished  hidden  some- 


DOROTHY 

thing.  She  smoothed  it  out  gently,  even  tenderly,  then 
placed  it  at  the  bottom  of  the  carved  box,  then  replaced 
the  articles  one  by  one. 

It  was  the  despised  talisman ! 

She  had  seen  an  object  lodge,  as  if  it  had  been 
violently  thrown,  in  some  underbrush  near  the  path 
along  which  she  and  Clay  were  passing.  Her  com- 
panion was  busy  with  a  story,  and  did  not  note  her 
start  of  surprise  as  she  stooped  to  regain  it.  Nor  did 
he  know  that  there  were  times  through  the  remainder 
of  the  day  when  she  came  near  being  a  conspicuous 
failure  as  a  "good  comrade." 

Ah!  if  Robert  could  only  have  known! 


116 


CHAPTER  XIV. 
CAMP  SUNNY  SLOPE 

IT  had  been  months  since  that  day  in  early  autumn 
when  Princess,  though  a  bit  protestingly,  bore  her 
master  from  the  ken  of  the  kindly  hearts  to  whom 
he  had  ministered,  and  on  to  that  new  life  which,  as 
he  rode,  took  a  more  distinct  place  in  his  mind. 

As  he  journeyed,  the  soft  maze  of  the  rich  Indian 
summer  hung  over  the  hilly  slopes,  and  bathed  the 
level  fields  with  its  beauty,  till  the  shocks  of  corn 
looked,  in  the  distance,  as  if  a  fairy  had  cast  about  each 
a  bridal  veil  of  gossamer. 

The  country  roads  were  heaped  with  fallen  leaves, 
and  here  and  there,  among  the  tangle  of  briers  in  the 
sheltered  fence-corners,  a  few  purple  clusters  of  iron- 
weed  or  plumes  of  golden-rod  still  defied  the  nightly 
encroaching  frosts. 

Much  of  the  time  the  man  rode  in  a  silence  broken 
only  by  the  foot-falls  of  Princess,  or  by  the  sharp  pro- 
phetic whistle  of  the  wind  among  the  despoiled  boughs, 
or  by  the  dropping  of  nuts,  or  the  scamper  of  squirrels 
in  their  zeal  of  winter  preparation. 
,  Sometimes  he  rode  unannounced  into  a  village,  and 
stopped  for  the  Sabbath.  If  opportunity  offered,  he 
never  failed  to  give  his  awakening  message.  At  times 
the  immediate  result  was  so  great  that  the  people  be- 
117 


DOROTHY 

sought  him  to  stay.  But  no;  "he  must  be,"  he  said, 
"about  his  Father's  business." 

Sometimes,  on  the  journey,  a  hospitable  home  re- 
ceived him  over  night ;  but  there  were  times  when,  with 
the  approach  of  the  chilly  nightfall,  he  would  unloose 
Princess,  let  her  browse  by  the  roadside,  and  would 
make  his  own  meal  from  the  purple  clusters  that  yet 
hung  undisturbed  from  pendent  boughs.  Then,  wrap- 
ping a  blanket  about  him,  he  lay  down,  and,  remem- 
bering that  the  "Galilean"  also  had  not  where  to  lay 
His  head,  he  slept  quite  content. 

He  purposed  to  continue  this  method  of  travel  till 
tired  nature  should  protest,  then  he  would  take  the 
swifter  railway  or  the  northward-bound  boat. 

Wlien  the  journey  first  began,  although  unyield- 
ing purpose  sat  upon  the  traveler's  face,  care  and  a 
measure  of  sadness  also  kept  the  stronger  quality  com- 
pany. 

Nature  is  a  tactful  preacher.  She  touches  the  surg- 
ing heart,  and  peace  steals  in  to  soothe.  Her  gentle 
breeze  bathes  the  brow,  and  the  weary,  questioning 
brain  drops  its  problems.  Then,  when  the  soothed 
hearer  is  ready  for  the  sermon,  she  rehearses  of  God 
the  Creator,  "without  whom  there  was  not  anything 
made;  of  the  protecting  care  of  this  Father  illus- 
trating this  one  last  point,  by  a  thousand  instances  from 
her  busy  hive. 

She  discourses  further  of  Eternity,  and  of  Time 
as  but  a  fragment  of  the  same;  and  if  but  a  fragment, 
then  how  vain  many  of  the  ambitions  with  which  man 
busies  the  passing  moments! 

118 


CAMP  SUNNY  SLOPE 

After  this  manner  did  he,  who  had  been  "surplus," 
commune  much  with  himself  as  the  days  of  the  journey 
lengthened.  Once  as  he  paused,  his  hands  resting  on 
Princess,  the  oft-quoted  lines  came  to  him : 

"  O  why  should  the  spirit  of  mortal  be  proud? 
Like  a  swift-fleeting  meteor,  a  fast-flying  cloud, 
A  flash  of  the  lightning,  a  break  of  the  wave, 
Man  passes  from  life  to  his  rest  in  the  grave." 

Then  the  parting  words  of  the  Professor  rang  in 
his  ears:  "There  are  no  humble  duties;  each  is  God- 
given.  And  the  only  reward  life  has  to  offer  in  any 
sphere,  is  the  satisfaction  that  arises  from  within." 

Suddenly  the  broad  shoulders  squared  themselves. 
Victory  from  within  was  at  last  asserting  itself.  "God 
helping  me,  I  will  know  that  satisfaction,"  he  said 
under  his  breath.  And  at  this,  disappoinment  fled 
abashed.  His  "enemy"  had  buffeted  him  in  vain.  He 
was  at  last  his  Master's  faithful  servant,  ready  to 
serve,  it  mattered  not  where. 

The  logging  season  in  the  great  Northern  woods 
had  opened  with  unusual  vigor.  A  buying  firm,  with 
a  million  or  so  of  good  American  money  back  of  it, 
had  bargained  for  the  entire  output  of  a  large  region. 
That  the  output  should  equal  the  expectations,  a  strong 
force  of  men  had  been  set  to  work.  These  were  scat- 
tered about  the  woods  in  separate  camps,  of  which 
one  called  "Sunny  Slope"  was  chief. 

Heavy  snows  had  fallen  early.  And  the  woodmen 
lost  no  time,  so  each  day  saw  the  downfall  of  great 


DOROTHY 

trees  that  had  grown  strong  amid  the  winds  and  temp- 
ests of  passing  years.  Then  came  the  lopping  off  of 
the  branches,  the  steady  monotonous  creak  of  the  sleds 
as  they  carried  the  logs  to  the  "skidway,"  ready  for 
hauling  to  the  river  banks ;  from  these  the  spring  fresh- 
ets would  float  them  to  the  "milling  town"  lower 
down  the  stream. 

On  a  certain  day  in  early  winter  "Sunny  Slope" 
was  in  a  state  of  hushed  excitement.  The  new  "flume" 
had  collapsed,  burying  beneath  its  debris  the  four  men 
who  were  at  the  time  making  the  perilous  descent. 
Two  of  these  had  been  taken  out,  quite  beyond  the 
need  of  aid;  how  great  the  injuries  of  the  other  two, 
still  pinned  beneath  the  timbers,  and  yet  alive,  none 
could  tell. 

"Sunny  Slope"  felt  the  accident  the  more  keenly 
because  the  building  of  the  flume  had  been  the  pet 
project  of  "Boss"  Stephens,  whose  headquarters  were 
at  that  camp.  Stephens  had  been  a  lumberman  for 
the  last  five  seasons  in  British  Columbia,  and  had  been 
familiar  with  the  flumes  of  that  region  (ice-packed 
roadways)  that  wound  up  the  heavily  wooded  moun- 
tain sides,  down  which  the  great  logs  whizzed  to  their 
destination  with  a  rapidity  which  put  to  shame  the 
slower  motions  of  the  sleds.  He  had  argued  that  a 
short  roadway  of  the  kind,  leading  up  to  a  range  of 
heavily  wooded  hills,  would  yield  large  compensation 
in  the  saving  of  both  time  and  labor. 

He  had  finally  carried  his  point,  not,  however, 
without  protests  and  ridicule.  For  over  a  month  the 
road  (built  on  heavy  logs  for  a  foundation)  had  been 
1 2O 


CAMP  SUNNY  SLOPE 

in  operation,  and  had  won  its  way  into  universal  favor. 
Hourly  great  piles  of  logs  glided  down,  and  were 
caught  at  the  bottom  by  men  with  skidding  tongs,  and 
deposited  in  piles  easy  of  access.  Finally,  as  its  favor 
increased,  it  became  a  thoroughfare  for  the  men  going 
to  and  from  the  hills.  There  was  just  enough  peril  in 
the  exhilarating  ride  to  appeal  to  these  men  of  iron 
nerve. 

The  men  were  busy  removing  the  bodies  from  the 
debris,  and  still  others  were  quickly  coming  to  the 
scene  from  other  work  points,  when  a  man  was  seen 
aproaching,  whose  gait  and  bearing  proclaimed  him  a 
stranger.  As  he  drew  rein,  he  at  once  grasped  the 
situation,  and  realizing  that  this  was  no  time  for  in- 
troduction or  explanation,  he  slipped  from  his  horse, 
and,  throwing  a  coat  over  the  shivering  animal,  at 
once  made  his  way  through  the  excited  crowd,  which 
at  that  moment,  like  many  another,  lacked  leadership. 

In  an  instant,  with  his  own  hands,  he  set  about 
hastily  improvising  a  bed  of  hemlock  twigs,  then 
grasped  a  blanket  at  hand,  and,  doubling  it  over,  he 
directed  that  the  injured  men  be  laid  upon  it.  This 
having  been  done  he  knelt  to  ascertain  the  extent  of 
the  injuries. 

"Hiven  has  sent  us  a  docther,"  said  one  who  owned 
Erin  as  his  fatherland. 

"A  praste  o'im  more  apt  to  be  thinkin',  and  sure 
we  're  afther  nadin'  him  bad  enough,"  was  whispered 
in  reply. 

The  examination  revealed,  in  the  case  of  one,  a 
broken  limb  and  a  badly  bruised  head.  The  other  was 
121 


DOROTHY 

yet  unconscious,  and  seemed  literally  a  mass  of  bruises, 
though  no  broken  bones  were  found. 

A  word  of  inquiry,  and  each  was  carried  to  Sunny 
Slope,  the  stranger  going  ahead,  and  quietly  seeing  to 
it  that  the  best  bunks  were  made  ready  for  the  suf- 
ferers. 

In  the  next  hour  the  stranger,  whoever  he  might 
be,  made  rapid  progress  into  the  hearts  of  the  men. 
The  broken  limb  was  set,  and  this  without  ado.  The 
bruised  head  was  carefully  sponged  and  bandaged. 
Consciousness  had,  in  the  meanwhile,  returned  to  the 
other  much  bruised  individual,  and  while  the  new- 
comer had  been  busy  with  the  broken  limb,  he  had, 
with  a  quick  eye  for  the  most  efficient  helpers,  set  one 
or  two  at  work  wringing  blankets  out  of  hot  water, 
greatly  to  the  relieving  of  the  sufferer. 

Throughout  it  all  there  had  not  been  a  word  of 
explanation.  None  was  needed,  for  instinctively  each 
woodsman  knew  the  stranger  was  the  "missionary" 
whose  coming  had  been  the  butt  of  many  a  "mess" 
joke. 

How  strange  the  Providence  that  had  so  wonder- 
fully timed  his  arrival,  when  there  had  been  so  many 
exigencies  of  the  journey  to  hinder  or  hasten!  No, 
not  strange;  for  a  certain  promise  has  come  down 
through  the  centuries.  Years  before,  the  "surplus 
man"  had  heard  it  and  claimed  it:  "In  all  thy  ways 
acknowledge  Him,  and  He  shall  direct  thy  paths." 

The  present  had  been  only  one  of  many  fulfill- 
ments. 

122 


CAMP  SUNNY  SLOPE 

A  single  underlying  fact,  not  yet  noted,  lay  back 
of  the  strange  series  of  providences  that  had  sent  Wil- 
liam MacByrne  as  "missionary  to  the  woods:"  a  fact 
which  demands  recognition  at  this  point. 

The  industry  of  that  region  required  the  presence 
of  a  large  company  of  men,  and  the  life  of  these  had 
proven  anew  "that  it  is  not  good  for  man  to  be  alone." 

Stories  of  the  wild,  rough  life  drifted  back  to  the 
homes  which  some  of  the  men  had  left.  Stories  that 
told  of  the  sneaking  in  of  "the  drink"  and  of  revels 
that  became  orgies,  told  also  of  sickness  and  of  death. 
Christian  sentiment,  always  slow  to  crystallize,  at 
length  aroused  itself,  and  demanded  that  something 
be  done  for  the  woodsmen. 

Morality  and  religion  are  not  without  a  commercial 
value.  So,  as  the  movement  grew,  the  "firm"  at  length 
gave  the  great  weight  of  its  influence  to  the  call  for  a 
consecrated  man  to  give  his  life  to  the  urgent  need. 
Hence  the  letter  to  the  bishop. 

All  this  had  been  known  to  the  men,  and  at  length, 
so  irresistible  is  the  travel  of  news,  it  was  known  that 
the  request  had  been  met,  and  the  man  was  already 
on  the  way. 

The  woodsmen  received  the  news  with  marked  dis- 
approval. They  knew  in  advance  what  he  was  to  be, 
a  whining,  cavernous-faced  "saint,"  a  constant  check 
upon  their  lawful  pleasures.  There  was  only  one  re- 
lief in  prospect:  "he  would  be  easily  disposed  of,"  and 
not  a  man  but  stood  ready  to  do  his  share  of  the  "dis- 
posing." 

123 


DOROTHY 

Bat  in  an  boor  he  had  so  strangely  come,  and  in 
a  day,  without  a  word  of  donor,  had  become  a  recog- 
nized put  of  the  camp  life! 

Death,  no  natter  where  or  in  what  form  it  may 
cone,  is  never  without  pathos.  So  it  was  a  silent 
4jnn«i  of  hronaul  men  that  carried  the  two  lifeless 
forms  to  the  pares  dot  had  been  dug  in  the  frozen 


There  had  been  no  thought  of  a  burial  service; 
rather  the  thoogjkt  had  been  that  Acre  should  be  none. 
The  preacher  had  shown  such  a  helpful  spirit  that  01- 
will  had  as  jet  found  no  opportunity  to  Tent  itself. 

h*      1      <^  .%.  J^   ^t       u 

was  oxKlip  Mil  ••via,  Dowerer,  IMC  OK    parson 

would  probably  Tnmiiirf  the  open  grave  9  a  place  to 
indicate  hs  errand.  Well,  he  might  as  well  know,  first 
as  last,  they  would  hare  none  of  that.  Therefore  he 
was  Terr  pointedly  fcli-owl  of  the  few  arrangements 
that  were  node.  However,  lunriog  no  dignity  to  be 

place  to  follow  the  Kttfc  gma>  to  Ae  UBa^b. 

The  bodies  were  about  to  be  lowered,  when,  with 
a  sadden  outstretching  of  the  arm,  a  dear  voice  that 
earned  with  it  an  wader  note  of  fomnunrt..  called  out, 
"We  wiQ  wait  a  minute,  boys;"  and  at  the  instant  the 
same  wite*  low,,  ({tnttc.  yet  wooderxully  sweet,  begun 
vhe  exhortation  m  song! 


CAMP  SUNNY  SLOPE 

There  was  about  it  all  an  clement  of  persuasiveness 
that  brought  with  the  opening  words  a  rush  of  home 
memories.  The  words  and  the  music  were  familiar 
to  most  of  the  men,  and  by  the  time  the  chorus  was 
reached  the  greater  number  joined  in  the  singing. 

"Father,"  the  preacher  with  bared  head  was  pray- 
ing,— "Father,  Thou  hast  taken  the  soul  of  our  com- 
rades. We  know  Thou  wilt  judge  righteously;  we 
leave  them  and  ourselves  with  Thee.  Amen."  With 
the  dying  echo  of  the  last  word  MacByrne  was  on  his 
way  back  to  the  bunks  where  lay  the  injured  men. 

"Say,  the  parson  knows  the  way  all  right  to  the 
Almighty's  front  door,"  one  said  to  the  other,  while 
the  last  frozen  clod  was  being  beaten  down. 

"Yes,"  answered  Irish  Mike,  "and  o'im  afther 
thinkin'  He  will  ginerally  be  in  whenever  the  parson 
knocks." 

A  trifle  irreverent,  perhaps,  but  a  straw  which 
augured  favoring  winds  for  William  MacByrne,  of 
whom  neither  the  world  nor  his  brethren  would  ever 
again  set  over  against  his  name  that  heart-breaking 
word,  "Surplus." 


125 


CHAPTER  XV. 
BARK  COTTAGE 

THE  injured  men  were  doing  well.  The  broken 
limb,  especially,  was  knitting  together  in  a  manner  that 
testified  to  the  skill  of  the  impromptu  surgeon.  As 
the  latter  watched  each  day's  progress,  he  often  recalled 
one  single  hour  of  his  brief  stay  in  the  hospital.  The 
head  surgeon  had  happened  to  be  lecturing  to  the  class 
upon  "Emergency  Cases,"  dwelling  largely  on  the  need 
of  self-control  and  of  that  inventive  faculty  which,  if 
possessed,  enables  the  operator  to  do  his  work  with 
success,  even  though  ordinary  appliances  are  absent. 

In  the  midst  of  the  lecture  a  messenger  interrupted 
the  surgeon.  A  cab-driver  in  a  runaway  had  suffered 
a  broken  limb,  and  was  at  the  instant  being  carried 
into  the  hospital.  In  such  accidents,  one  from  the  class 
was  usually  detailed  to  meet  the  emergency,  always 
under  the  watchful  eye  of  the  chief. 

The  choice  in  this  instance  fell  upon  MacByrne. 
Even  the  great  surgeon  smiled  his  approval  as  the 
deft,  strong  hands  quickly  passed  from  one  point  to 
another  in  the  operation.  In  a  short  time  the  sufferer 
was  ready  to  be  borne  away  by  the  white-capped  at- 
tendants. 

How  fortunate  this  choice  the  camp  at  Sunny  Slope 
had  reason  to  know. 

The  rivalry  of  the  different  camps,  stilled  for  a 
126 


BARK  COTTAGE 

day  by  the  fatal  accident,  was  soon  at  its  usual  height, 
and  each  day  was  again  filled  with  hard,  driving  work. 

Men  as  tired  as  they  had  no  time  nor  inclination 
for  more  than  a  gruff  "How  comes  it?"  to  such  of 
their  comrades  as  fell  by  the  way.  While  the  "French 
cook,"  with  a  great  deal  of  swearing  and  still  more 
sputtering,  prepared  the  daily  rations  of  pork  and 
beans,  he  had  no  time  for  the  delicate  administrations 
we  are  apt  to  associate  with  the  sick.  So  the  care  of  the 
injured  men  fell  naturally  to  the  newcomer,  who  ten- 
derly and  unwearyingly  did  his  work. 

Sunny  Slope  soon  came  into  distinction  on  account 
of  its  "new  member  of  the  mess,"  and  it  was  not  un- 
usual for  a  hurrying  rider  to  call  on  the  oustide,  "Man 
sick  at  number  four;"  or  "Man  hurt  at  number  seven." 
Nothing  more  than  the  bare  announcement  was  needed. 
There  was  one  in  the  camp  who  had  read  the  story 
of  the  "Good  Samaritan"  to  a  purpose. 

The  stranger  had  been  given  a  seat  at  the  "mess," 
and  one  of  the  bunks  in  the  lower  tier  was  his;  but 
none  suspected  how,  at  times,  when  he  crept  into  this 
cheerless  sleeping-place — though  the  cheeriest  man 
among  them  all — his  whole  self  cried  out  against  the 
"herding,"  and  for  a  corner,  however  small,  which  he 
might  call  his  own. 

Even  Princess  shared  her  master's  discontent.  Her 
stall  was  at  one  end  of  a  long  row  in  the  camp  stable, 
where  the  work-horses  ate  their  corn  and  hay,  champed 
their  heavy  bits,  and  were  driven  in  and  out  at  un- 
canny hours. 

Often  the  master  came  into  her  stall;  then  he 
127 


DOROTHY 

would  gently  stroke  the  shapely  head,  and  say  softly, 
"Princess,  you  deserve  better;  be  patient."  At  this 
Princess  would  give  a  deprecatory  toss  of  the  head  as  if 
in  protest  at  her  surroundings,  in  which,  doubtless, 
memories  of  past  "bran-mashes"  and  more  comfortable 
quarters  had  a  part.  But  "dumb"  though  she  was, 
she  was  able  in  her  own  way  to  convey  to  the  thought- 
ful man  as  he  passed  out  a  pledge  of  comradeship  in 
whatever  ill  might  come. 

Back  of  Sunny  Slope  was  an  abandoned  log  build- 
ing, formerly  a  "camp  quarter"  in  the  days  of  smaller 
operations.  The  walls  of  this  were  solid  enough  to 
last  decades.  The  great-throated  chimney  was  also 
intact,  but  the  clapboard  roof  and  the  puncheon  floor 
had  been  removed  piece  by  piece. 

MacByrne  had  eyed  this  questioningly  from  the 
first,  thinking  of  a  home  for  Princess;  but  one  day  as 
he  stood  looking  it  over,  the  winds  that  were  whistling 
down  the  great  chimney  were  silent  a  moment,  then, 
touching  him  gently,  whispered  into  his  ear  a  single 
word — "home."  A  home  for  master  as  well  as  servant. 
He  at  once  set  to  work  to  clean,  and  then  to  repair. 
As  his  anxiety  to  hasten  the  work  became  known, 
Stephens  "the  boss,"  in  gratitude  for  services  rendered, 
detailed  two  men  to  forward  the  work. 

There  were  saplings  in  abundance  for  roof-poles, 
and  enough  slabs  had  been  left  from  the  shanties  for 
the  floor,  but  to  find  material  for  the  roof  was  a  puzzle, 
until  MacByrne  bethought  him  of  the  beautiful  birch- 
bark  so  plentiful  in  the  woods.  This  nailed  to  the 
closely  laid  saplings  made  an  ideal  roof.  Then,  be- 
128 


BARK  COTTAGE 

cause  the  wind  still  whistled  through  sundry  chinks, 
he  covered  the  entire  walls  on  the  outside  with  the 
same.  The  result  was  a  picturesqueness  beyond  his 
planning.  In  a  glow  of  satisfaction  MacByrne  chris- 
tened his  new  home  "Bark  Cottage,"  and  the  name  so 
appropriate  became  a  fixture. 

By  this  time  December  was  hastening.  The  calen- 
dars made  much  of  the  announcement  that,  on  a  cer- 
tain day,  joy-bells  would  ring  and  chorals  chant  in 
gladness  the  birth  of  Him  who  came  as  the  World's 
Supreme  Blessing.  But  MacByrne  knew  that  in  the 
woods  there  would  only  be  the  creak  of  sleds  over  the 
snow,  the  crack  of  murderous  whips,  and  the  whiz  of 
logs  down  the  repaired  flume.  Nevertheless  he  set 
his  heart  on  being  in  his  new  quarters  on  Christmas- 
day.  The  possibilities  of  this  developed  with  the  weeks. 

The  space  at  his  disposal  was  a  single  large  room, 
with  a  loft  above.  This  was  in  good  repair,  and  was 
reached  by  a  pair  of  steps.  It  had  been  the  sleeping- 
room  of  the  vanished  camp.  Attached  to  the  building 
was  a  roomy,  tumble-down  shed,  which  had  been  the 
old  cook-house.  This  he  had  moved  a  few  feet,  and 
"barked"  inside  and  out  for  warmth's  sake.  Here 
Princess  was  soon  contentedly  at  home.  The  loft  of 
the  main  building  was  heated  by  a  fireplace,  as  was 
the  lower  room. 

As  the  building  neared  completion  the  inside  walls 
were  found  to  be  so  weather-stained  and  unsatisfactory 
that  at  the  last  MacByrne  covered  even  these  with  the 
silvery  gray  bark.  A  few  more  touches,  and  the  work 
was  done. 

9  129 


DOROTHY 

On  December  25th — though  not  all  knew  the 
date — the  word  was  passed  quietly  from  mouth  to 
mouth  that  "the  preacher"  was  now  at  home,  and 
would  be  glad  to  have  his  friends  drop  in  after  the 
day's  work  was  done. 

There  had  been  not  a  little  curiosity  concerning 
his  work,  so  during  the  evening,  not  only  all  from 
Sunny  Slope,  but  a  few  from  neighboring  camps, 
straggled  in,  as  if  half  ashamed  of  the  concession  they 
were  making.  Once  in,  however,  they  soon  forgot 
their  restraint.  Each  of  the  great  fireplaces  was  fairly 
rollicking  in  the  ecstasy  of  flame.  The  few  books 
that  had  followed  the  preacher  to  the  forest  were  on 
some  shelves  in  a  corner,  and  on  a  rudely  constructed 
table  lay  papers  and  a  magazine  or  two.  The  skillful 
hands  that  knew  no  rest  had  fashioned  a  few  chairs 
from  willow  withes,  and  these  were  grouped  about  the 
fire. 

MacByrne  and  the  cook  (already  fast  friends)  had 
held  through  the  weeks  a  little  secret  together.  With 
the  last  load  of  supplies  there  had  been  smuggled  into 
camp  a  barrel  of  apples  and  a  sack  of  actual  popcorn. 
The  open  barrel  stood  in  one  corner  and  bore  the 
legend,  "Take  one." 

The  cook,  quite  in  the  spirit  of  the  occasion,  lent 
himself  to  the  charm  of  popping  corn,  and  presently 
pans  of  savory  kernels — the  better  for  a  sprinkle  of  salt 
and  a  bath  of  butter — invited  eating. 

A  few,  with  a  desire  to  see  all,  went  upstairs. 

"Why,  what  have  you  two  beds  for?"  one  asked, 
as  he  noticed  two  handmade  cots  that  fitted  into  the 
130 


BARK  COTTAGE 

shadowing  angles  of  the  room.     MacByrne  hesitated, 
then  said  softly: 

"May  you  never  need  to  know; — the  extra  one  is 
for  my  next  sick  boy." 

There  was  an  unusual  silence  that  Christmas  night 
as  first  one,  and  then  another,  crept  into  his  cheerless 
bunk,  and  when  Mike,  with  his  customary  awkward- 
ness, tipped  the  candle  over  and  left  them  in  darkness, 
there  was  only  a  single  oath,  and  that  was  promptly 
smothered. 

It  was  well,  for  it  had  come  at  a  moment  when 
men  were  busy  with  a  vision  in  which  mother  hands 
shaped  kernels,  like  those  just  eaten,  into  delicious 
balls,  or  slipped  big  red  apples  into  inviting  stockings. 

Still  it  must  be  confessed,  if  at  this  particular 
juncture  the  "Woods  Missionary"  had  been  compelled 
to  forward  to  his  superiors  in  office  a  "statistical  re- 
port" of  his  labors,  many  would  have  shaken  their 
heads  at  the  painful  absence  of  "results,"  even  of  en- 
deavor ;  for  he  must  of  necessity  have  reported,  "Not  a 
single  religious  service  held." 

Yet  all  would  have  judged  leniently  could  they 
have  measured  the  self-dissatisfaction  which  at  times 
overwhelmed  the  lonely  worker.  He  believed  with  all 
his  heart  that  it  had  pleased  God  that,  by  the  "fool- 
ishness of  preaching,"  men  were  to  be  saved,  and  when 
the  wickedness  of  the  camp  pressed  in  upon  him  he 
felt  in  his  heart  that  to  him  had  been  intrusted  the 
blessed  remedy  for  it  all,  and  he  longed  for  a  pulpit, 
if  only  a  stump  of  a  tree,  from  which  to  give  his  old 


DOROTHY 

warning  message  of  a  wrath  sure  to  overtake  all  who 
feared  not  God. 

But  how  should  he  preach  when  there  was  no 
chapel,  even  no  Sabbath?  And  the  sentiment  of  the 
camp,  unspoken  but  clearly  understood,  was,  "You  're 
all  right,  Parson,  and  though  we  never  expected  as 
much,  we  like  to  have  you  around;  but  understand! 
no  pious  talk;  we  will  have  none  of  that!" 

Clearly  there  was,  as  yet,  only  the  ministry  of  serv- 
ice. The  rivalry  between  the  camp  "bosses"  for  the 
largest  output  precluded  a  day  of  rest.  Besides,  the 
most  zealous  Sabbatarian  must  have  questioned  the 
expediency  of  a  "day  off,"  which  meant  extra  carousal, 
and  more  than  likely  a  brawl  over  the  card-table, — 
that  fascinating  table,  that  has  come  down  through  the 
centuries  bearing  ever  its  sickening  trail  of  blood. 

"I  declare,"  said  one  who  remembered  better 
things,  "sometimes  I  forget  when  Sunday  comes." 
How  to  make  the  men  remember,  and  remember  more 
than  the  mere  name  of  the  day,  became  the  preacher's 
problem.  A  side  remark  of  Irish  Jem's  contained  a 
hint:  "Sure,  beans  and  bacon  is  not  bad  for  dinner, 
and  I  can  go  'em  for  supper  if  there  is  a  wee  sprink- 
ling of  praties,  but  to  have  the  same  ould  mixthure 
for  breakfast, — bah !" 

That  day  there  was  a  consultation  between  Mac- 
Byrne  and  the  cook.  "Slapjack — pancake  you  call 
them — slapjack  for  all  dose  men?  Me  cook  all  day, 
to-morrow,  and  next  week,  then  not  enough.  Besides," 
and  he  gave  a  final  shrug  of  the  shoulders,  "I  got  no — 
132 


BARK  COTTAGE 

what  you  call  him? — no — grids — I  no  fixed  for  slap- 
jacks." 

But  the  practical  man  knew  no  rebuffs.  All  day 
long  he  was  busy  with  his  new  problem.  Suddenly  he 
remembered  that  near  the  flume  there  lay  a  smooth 
steel  plate.  It  had  been  ordered  for  the  repairing,  but 
had  not  been  used.  Instantly;  in  his  mind,  MacByrne 
saw  it  polished  and  fitting  closely  on  the  cook's  range; 
and  after  a  few  hours  of  faithful  work  his  vision  was 
realized. 

The  next  morning  was  Sunday.  The  men,  cross 
and  surly  as  usual,  turned  out  of  the  bunks  at  the 
usual  hour.  The  first  comers  to  the  mess-room  pricked 
up  their  nostrils  at  an  unusual  whiff;  then  such  a 
howl  and  clatter  as  went  up  when  the  cook  was  seen 
bringing  to  the  table  stacked  plates  of  hot  cakes,  while 
back  at  the  stove  stood  the  "preacher"  with  rolled 
sleeves,  and,  it  must  be  confessed,  a  very  red  face  and 
a  wholly  unministerial  air,  dexterously  turning  a  fresh 
relay,  now  brown  to  a  turn. 

When  the  added  discovery  was  made  that  the 
brown  jugs  gracing  the  table  contained  syrup,  freshly 
made  from  brown  sugar,  with  one  more  grunt  of  satis- 
faction each  man  settled  down,  and  soon  began  to  call 
out,  "More!" 

The  critical  moment,  that  for  which  the  preceding 
ones  had  been  planned,  came  when  even  the  hungriest 
began  to  push  back  from  the  table.  For  a  moment  the 
preacher  faltered,  then  his  voice  rang  true  and  strong. 
"Comrades,  this  is  Sunday,  you  '11  know  when  it  comes 

133 


DOROTHY 

again;  for  when  it  does  you  will  eat  slapjacks  again. 
Suppose  we  spend  a  few  moments  of  the  day  as  we 
should."  And  again  the  clear  voice  stopped  all  argu- 
ment as  it  rang  out  in  the  exultant  strains  of  the 
Doxology. 

Yes,  he  certainly  had  looked  unministerial ;  but  an 
incident  of  the  same  day  showed  him  with  a  mien 
almost  prophetic.  It  was  in  the  afternoon,  when,  sick 
at  heart  with  crowding  memories  of  happier  days, 
he  started  for  a  walk  in  the  bracing  air.  Suddenly  he 
came  upon  a  crowd  of  men  who  had  come  together 
at  the  cry  of  "fight,"  and  who,  with  jibes  and  oaths, 
were  taking  sides  until  the  fray  promised  to  become 
general. 

"Bill  Wilson"  was  the  acknowledged  bully  of  the 
woods.  Tall  and  heavily  built,  his  appearance  was 
enough  to  inspire  fear  in  any  who  saw  him  angered. 
For  a  week  he  had  taken  an  unusual  delight  in  twit- 
ting Jem.  He  had  mimicked  his  brogue,  had  told 
stories  in  his  presence  of  his  country,  and  of  his  country- 
men. All  this  merely  to  see  the  Irish  lad's  face  burn 
and  his  C5res  flash  fire  as  he  restrained  himself. 

But  at  length  Wilson  went  too  far.  At  the  insult 
— for  such  it  was — Jem  had  paused,  his  face  livid  with 
anger;  then,  with  a  tiger  spring,  he  had  landed  on  the 
broad  back,  wound  his  arms  about  the  heavy-corded 
neck,  at  the  same  time  gripping  with  his  fingers  the  big 
ear  conveniently  near.  Wilson  had  just  dislodged  his 
death-inviting  assailant,  felling  him  with  a  single  blow, 
when  MacByrne  appeared. 

If  the  action  of  Jem  had  been  a  surprise  to  those 


BARK  COTTAGE 

who  witnessed  it,  that  of  the  "preacher"  was  the  cul- 
minating one.  With  a  strength  none  knew  he  pos- 
sessed he  seized  Wilson,  and  forcibly  drew  him  off  his 
prostrate  victim,  and  thrusting  him  aside,  bade  him  be 
ashamed  to  fight  a  mere  lad.  Then,  before  either  Wil- 
son or  the  men  could  recover  from  their  surprise,  he 
sprung  upon  a  near-by  log,  and  certainly  Paul  the 
Apostle  never  reasoned  more  forcibly  of  "righteous- 
ness" nor  with  more  fervor  of  a  "judgment  to  come" 
than  did  this  plain  "Woods  Preacher;"  and  as  audi- 
ences miles  away  had  been  used  to  tremble  at  his  por- 
trayal of  God's  wrath,  so  did  this  smaller  one  as  its 
sins  were  relentlessly  held  up. 

At  last  he  had  preached  his  initial  sermon! 

That  same  night  there  was  a  low  rap  at  the  door 
of  Bark  Cottage.  As  MacByrne  opened  it,  to  his  sur- 
prise he  saw  before  him  Wilson,  him  of  the  morning's 
conflict.  Had  he  come  stealthily  seeking  revenge? 
No;  strange  as  it  may  appear,  a  single  "Gospel-tipped 
arrow"  had  winged  its  way  to  the  heart  of  this  wicked 
man,  laying  it  bare  in  all  its  hideousness,  and  he  had 
seen  himself  as  others  had  long  known  him,  a  braggart 
and  a  brawler.  With  this  view  had  come  a  longing 
for  better  things,  and,  like  another,  he  had  come  by 
night  to  inquire  the  wray  of  salvation.  MacByrne 
talked  with  him  long  and  patiently,  and  finally  he  fore- 
swore his  wicked  life. 

And  this  unexpected  outcome  proved  the  beginning 
of  better  days,  not  only  for  Sunny  Side,  but  for  the 
entire  woods. 


135 


CHAPTER  XVI. 
PIVOTAL 

BY  the  time  his  old  friends  at  Middletown  had 
fully  awakened  to  a  conception  of  what  the  new  life 
meant  for  the  village,  their  yet  well-remembered 
"preacher  had  spent  his  first  season  in  the  woods." 
Each  week  had  witnessed  progress  in  the  self-imposed 
task  of  soul-winning.  Bark  Cottage  had  been  from 
the  first  a  center  of  good  cheer.  To  it  men  came  to 
write  the  long-neglected  letter  home,  and  sometimes  to 
talk  over  life  plans,  once  loftier  than  the  present  in- 
dicated. 

When  the  cottage  had  been  but  a  few  weeks  old 
it  received  an  unusual  visitor.  He  was  well-dressed, 
and  clad  in  heavy  furs  to  protect  him  from  the  severe 
cold.  As  he  moved  swiftly  from  camp  to  camp,  not 
one  in  the  entire  "woods,"  whether  "Boss"  or  wood- 
cutter, could  avoid  a  hint  of  obsequiousness  in  the  touch 
of  the  cap  that  saluted  him.  The  visitor,  and  recipient 
of  this  unconscious  homage,  was  the  business  head  of 
the  great  firm  of  which  they  were  all  employees. 

He  soon  met  the  new  "friend"  of  the  woodsmen, 
and  his  keen  eye,  accustomed  to  measure  men  and  take 
their  worth  at  a  glance,  quickly  looked  him  over.  As 
he  did  so  he  was  obliged  to  make  a  mental  note,  "re- 
served for  further  study."  He  had  been  attracted  by 

136 


PIVOTAL 

some  quality  which  at  this  first  meeting  he  could  not 
name. 

That  night,  as  the  two  sat  together  in  front  of 
the  cottage  fire,  strangely  enough  the  "Woods 
Preacher"  did  most  of  the  talking,  and,  listening,  the 
"dignitary"  strove  in  vain  to  hide  an  amused  smile 
that,  in  spite  of  himself,  played  about  his  mouth. 

The  idea  was  so  preposterous  that  a  stranger  should 
presume  to  plead  for  a  business  change,  far-reaching  in 
its  scope,  and  unbacked  either  by  woodcutter  or  "boss.' 
The  plea  was  being  strongly  urged  that  men  and  teams 
should  rest  one  day  in  seven. 

"Well,  I  do  n't  mind  to  try  it,"  the  "dignitary" 
at  length  assented,  "though  my  judgment  is,  that  it 
will  only  mean  more  brawling;  but  there  are  many 
who  now  contend  that,  leaving  God  out  of  the  ques- 
tion, the  thing  pays." 

"My  friend,"  the  preacher  replied,  solemnly,  "it 
is  never  possible  to  leave  God  out  of  question.  He  will 
not  be  left  out." 

Like  a  flash  it  came  to  the  startled  listener  that, 
until  this  moment,  he  had  been  attempting  this  very 
thing.  For  an  instant  he  searched  the  earnest  face  be- 
fore him,  and  as  he  did  so  he  recognized  in  the  light 
of  the  fearless  eyes  that  quality  that  had  drawn  him 
at  the  outset.  //  was  sincerity. 

There  were  two  surprises  that  followed  this  visit. 
The  one  an  order  for  Sunday  rest  for  men  and  teams ; 
the  other  followed  in  an  assignment  of  supplies  from 
the  milling  town.  It  proved  to  be  a  small  cabinet 
organ  for  Bark  Cottage,  and  its  arrival  marked  a  new 

137 


DOROTHY 

era  in  the  social  life  of  the  camp.  There  were  no 
trained  fingers  to  touch  the  keys,  but  the  preacher's 
own  could  stumble  among  the  chords,  and  before  a 
week  had  passed  still  other  bronzed  men  came  in  "to 
see,"  as  they  said  half  ashamed,  "if  they  had  forgotten 
it  all." 

It  is  now  time  for  us  to  return  to  that  little  self- 
centered  village  from  which,  as  we  know,  the  "Woods 
Preacher"  had  traveled,  and  which  was  now  in  the 
throes  of  a  complete  change;  but  there  remains  one 
other  event  which,  because  of  its  far-reaching  effect 
upon  the  woodsmen,  demands  recital. 

Once  more  "Woods  Preacher"  and  "dignitary" 
were  sitting  close  together;  this  time  in  the  business 
office  of  the  latter,  who,  because  he  was  a  wise  "digni- 
tary," believed  in  the  personal  oversight  of  affairs,  and 
so  had  located  that  office,  and  his  home  for  the  present, 
in  the  milling  town  easily  accessible  to  the  woods, 
where  not  a  detail  of  the  work  escaped  him. 

The  "preacher"  was  once  more  talking  earnestly, 
and,  as  before,  he  had  but  one  theme,  "the  woods- 
men's needs,"  among  whom  he  did  not  now  doubt  a 
Providence  had  cast  his  lot.  Certain  plans  for  the 
next  season  lay  very  close  to  his  heart.  As  he  talked 
he  saw  only  the  men,  now  beginning  to  crave  better 
things,  for  whom  the  powers  of  darkness  were  making 
a  final  stand.  Before  him  sat  the  man  who  he  be- 
lieved ought,  under  God,  to  be  a  helper  in  their  des- 
perately hard  upward  climb. 

Sincerity  can  not  be  counterfeited,  and  in  the  end 

'38 


PIVOTAL 

forces  recognition.  As  the  earnest,  self-forgetting  man 
talked,  the  mind  of  the  listener  drifted  from  the  pres- 
ent, and  became  busy  with  his  own  past,  and  in  the 
introspection  he  realized  that,  until  this  moment,  he 
had  known  but  one  motive,  self.  As  MacByrne  had 
once  said,  "He  had  sought  to  leave  God  entirely  out 
of  his  life."  Was  it  true  that  He  would  not  be  left 
out?  It  came  to  him  now  that  "self-seeking,"  which 
he  believed  universal,  was  not  wholly  so;  for  that  this 
"Woods  Preacher"  sought  only  the  good  of  others  he 
would  stake  his  entire  business  acumen. 

And  further  —  O,  wonderful  admission !  —  the 
"preacher"  was  right  in  his  present  argument.  There 
icas  something  better,  something  nobler  in  life  than 
being  a  mere  money-getter.  Ah  that  he  were  in  as 
close  touch  with  the  great  God  as  he  believed  this  man 
to  be,  that  he  might  embody  these  higher  aims  into  his 
life! 

This  "man  of  affairs"  was  not  more  skilled  in 
gauging  character  than  was  the  one  by  his  side  in  read- 
ing spiritual  signs.  Suddenly  he  caught  the  yearning 
in  the  other's  face.  Wonderingly  he  paused,  then  said 
softly,  "My  friend,  you  would  see  the  Lord?  Behold, 
He  is  here!"  Then,  bowing  his  head,  he  bore  this  man 
of  the  larger  world  quite  to  the  Father's  Throne,  and, 
when  it  was  reached,  the  latter,  with  the  inborn  faith 
of  the  moment,  cried  out,  "My  Lord  and  my  God!" 

MacByrne  went  back  to  his  men  with  a  happy 
heart.  Not  a  wish  of  his  had  been  ungranted;  while 
he  with  whom  he  had  talked,  and  for  whom  he  had 
prayed,  was  wont  to  say  afterwards  that  in  that  hour 


DOROTHY 

he  began  to  live;  for  in  it  he  had  tasted  the  sweets 
that  a  life  yields  when  it  is  consecrated  to  the  good  of 
others. 

A  few  weeks  later,  MacByrne  with  great  satis- 
faction stood  watching  a  company  of  workmen  who 
were  giving  the  finishing  touches  to  the  longed-for 
chapel,  in  which,  another  season,  he  was  to  give  that 
simple  message  which,  he  believed,  held  in  itself  the 
secret  of  the  world's  redemption  from  every  evil  under 
which  it  groaned. 

As  he  watched  the  finishing  strokes  (the  men  were 
hurrying,  it  was  the  Nation's  birthday  and  a  little 
patriotic  service  had  been  planned  for  the  afternoon), 
he  seemed  more  restless  than  the  occasion  required. 
At  length  he  took  out  his  watch;  his  eyes  were  far 
away  and  wistful.  As  he  looked,  he  said  softly  to  him- 
self: "Robert  must  be  just  now  wheeling  his  'dele- 
gation' into  line.  How  I  hope  the  boy  wins  out!" 

The  wistful  look  still  held  place.  "What  changes 
are  coming  to  little  Middeltown !"  he  mused.  The 
reminiscent  glance  at  the  little  place  that  had  once 
been  home  was  not  yet  ended;  for  at  the  instant  a 
shapely  head  and  a  winsome  face  blurred  his  vision, 
and  a  pair  of  eyes  which,  strangely  enough,  had  in 
them  a  hint  of  coming  trouble,  looked  into  his.  "Ah, 
little  Dorothy,  what  of  the  future?  There  is  but  One 
who  knows,"  he  said,  as  if  in  answer  to  his  own  ques- 
tion, "and  He  cares!  Were  it  not  so,  many  of  us 
must  sink  beneath  our  loads." 

At  this  he  turned  cheerily  to  the  work  in  hand. 


140 


CHAPTER  XVII. 
IN  THE  LIVERY  OF  HEAVEN 

MIDDLE-TOWN  had  not  known  such  a  busy  summer. 
That  old  leisure  was  forever  gone  when  the  charm 
of  even  a  trivial  happening  lay  in  its  dissection  at  the 
"Store" — a  dissection  that  did  not  leave  untouched 
a  single  salient  point,  whether  humorous  or  philosoph- 
ical. New  and  startling  events  rapidly  succeeded  each 
other,  and  in  the  whirl,  somehow,  the  old  insensibly 
slipped  into  the  new. 

It  was  in  vain  that,  for  a  day  or  two  after  the 
"celebration,"  Long  David  and  one  or  two  others  hung 
around  the  old  meeting-place,  keen  for  a  sizing  up  of 
that  event,  eager  to  give  and  receive  side-bits  of  gossip. 

It  would  not  do.  The  new  people  and  the  awak- 
ened old  were,  as  David  said,  "everlastingly  too  much 
in  a  hurry."  The  utmost  that  any  one  of  these  had 
time  for  was  to  call  out,  "Big  time  yesterday,  heap  of 
folks  here,"  usually  adding,  "Guess  the  old  town  is 
going  to  go;"  which  interpreted  rightly,  meant,  "The 
new  town  was  to  be  a  success;  for  the  old,  with  its 
leisurely  ways,  its  neighborly  interests  in  each  other's 
joys  and  sorrows,  was  forever  gone." 

Perhaps  something  of  the  pathos  of  this  going 
crossed  Long  David's  mind,  as,  standing  listlessly  in 
the  shadow  of  the  "Store"  porch,  his  gaze  took  in  the 
141 


DOROTHY 

one  long  street,  now  yellow  with  unwonted  clouds  or 
dust,  and  noted  the  hurrying  people.  As  he  looked, 
a  group  of  dirty  men,  with  pick-axes  on  their  shoul- 
ders, slouched  by  on  their  way  to  their  cheap,  hastily 
built  lodging  house.  (For  the  new  railroad  had  al- 
ready curved  "The  Knobs"  and  was  about  to  enter 
the  village.) 

He  stood  taking  in  each  detail  of  the  change;  then 
with  a  shrug  of  his  shoulders  he  strode  off,  muttering 
as  he  went: 

"  'T  ain't  wuth  the  candle,  I  say,"  answering  an 
imaginary  disputant;  "I  say  it  ain't  wuth  the  candle." 

There  have  been  others,  who,  as  the  smoke  has 
cleared  away  from  that  contest  with  the  world  in 
which  they  have  been  victors,  have  had  it  borne  in 
upon  them  that  contentment  and  the  joys  of  a  simple 
life  have  unwittingly  been  the  price  of  that  victory, 
and,  realizing  this,  have  echoed  the  same  heart-plaint. 

But  there  was  one  of  the  newcomers  who  had  an 
abundance  of  leisure,  that  being  the  Rev.  Mr.  Bar- 
nolde,  of  whom  mention  has  already  been  made.  He 
was  still  at  the  home  of  Uncle  John  Sumner,  and  his 
was  the'most  familiar  face  at  the  "Store."  His  hands 
were  strangely  ready  to  relieve  those  of  the  "clerk," 
sometimes  to  the  latter's  displeasure.  One  day  the 
latter  (known  throughout  the  village  as  Joe)  unbur- 
dened his  heart  in  confidence  to  Long  David. 

"One  would  think,"  confided  Joe,  "the  Reverend 

owned  the  business,   from  the  way  he  pries  around, 

sticking  his  nose  into  everything,  getting  the  price  of 

this  and  of  that.    He  is  so  powerful  anxious  to  relieve 

142 


IN  THE  LIVERY  OF  HEAVEN 

'dear  Brother  Sumner'  that  he  has.-even  taken  the  book- 
keeping almost  entirely  into  his  own  hands." 

"Tut,  lad!  'Sour  grapes,  sour  grapes;'  that's  all 
that  ails  ye;  reckon  the  parson  don't  mean  to  do  no 
harm,"  was  David's  rejoinder. 

But  nevertheless  he  and  others  of  the  old  cronies 
were  not  slow  in  sizing  up  the  newcomer.  They  were 
too  orthodox  openly  to  criticise  a  minister;  but  none 
thought  it  amiss  to  guess  slyly  "the  Reverend  was  a 
kerrect  jedge  of  where  the  pot  biled  the  strongest." 
This  in  allusion  to  the  bountiful  table  comforts  of  the 
Sumner  home. 

From  the  outset  the  Rev.  Mr.  Barnolde's  right- 
eous soul  had  been  troubled  by  the  unchurched  con- 
dition of  the  community.  The  circuit  was  a  large  one, 
and  MacByrne's  successor  could  only  make  the  "point" 
once  in  three  weeks.  This  occasional  service  and  a 
sparsely  attended  Sunday-school,  with  the  inevitable 
"class  meeting,"  represented  the  sole  "means  of  grace." 

Occasionally  the  young  people  of  either  denomina- 
tion strolled  off  to  the  services  of  the  other  Church, 
but  such  a  frivolous  process  was  greatly  frowned  upon 
by  the  elders  of  both  Churches. 

"Sad,  deplorably  sad!"  and  the  sympathetic  stranger 
dwelt  so  often  and  with  such  unctuous  solemnity  upon 
the  fact  that  Uncle  John  at  length  became  quite  af- 
fected. 

Why  should  this  condition  continue  when  quite  in 
line  with  Providence  was  a  minister  close  at  hand? 

John  Sumner  had  been  for  years  the  greatly  de- 
ferred-to  "pillar"  in  his  local  Church.  Now  that  the 

H3 


DOROTHY 

"pillar"  was  losing  its  stateliness,  would  the  associates 
of  a  lifetime  go  contrary  to  their  leader's  wishes? 
Such  a  course  is  not  usual  with  Church  people;  so  it 
was  not  long  until  the  Rev.  Mr.  Barnolde,  for  a 
"comfortable  consideration,"  became  associate  pastor. 
And  the  congregation  which  had  been  familiar  with 
MacByrne's  sharp,  incisive  denunciations  of  sin,  was 
now  soothed  by  mellifluous  sentences,  while  a  sybil- 
lant  voice,  a  rapt  pose  of  the  head,  and  a  deprecatory 
clasp  of  the  hands  called  attention  to  the  extreme  piety 
of  the  speaker.  And  yet  a  more  unpopular  preacher 
had  never  entered  the  pulpit.  So  little  does  a  work- 
aday world  appreciate  advertised  piety. 

"How  did  you  like  the  sermon?"  one  ventured  to 
ask  of  Long  David,  as,  with  an  inscrutable  counte- 
nance, that  worthy  sauntered  out  of  the  church  on  a 
certain  Sunday,  and  on  to  a  clump  of  trees  where  a 
company  of  men  and  boys  stood  "visiting." 

David  responded  with  a  wry  face,  then:  "O,  the 
sermon  was  all  right,  I  guess;  but  I  tell  ye,  neighbor, 
some  way  oil  never  did  set  well  on  my  stomach;"  and 
David  voiced  public  sentiment. 

With  this  change  Barnolde  became  permanently 
"at  home"  with  the  Sumners,  and  trying  days  set  in 
for  Dorothy.  She  saw  with  sadness  her  father's  in- 
creasing apathetic  condition,  nor  did  she  forget  the 
last  appealing  glance  of  "Aunt  Lucy"  and  its  mute 
committal  to  her  of  the  failing  loved  one.  It  had  been 
her  chief  concern,  since,  to  see  that  her  father  missed 
.none  of  those  little  ministrations  it  had  been  the  absent 
one's  delight  to  render.  Nor  was  the  task  perfunctory ; 
144 


IN  THE  LIVERY  OF  HEAVEN 

for  "the  old  man  with  the  gray  hair"  had  been  the 
great  love  of  the  young  girl's  life.  From  the  beginning 
the  two  had  been  more  closely  knit  together  than  are 
some  fathers  and  daughters. 

But  much  of  this  was  now  changed.  Mr.  Barnolde 
was  constantly  by  the  failing  man's  side,  and  the  fleet- 
ing weeks  brought  no  hour  when  father  and  daughter 
were  alone  together,  and  one  by  one  he  appropriated 
to  himself  the  little  services  it  had  been  her  delight 
to  render. 

Poor  Dorothy!  She  had  hours  when  anger  mas- 
tered her,  and  others  given  over  to  helpless  despair. 
Her  unhappiness  daily  increased,  and  how  to  rid  the 
home  of  the  intruder  became  her  chief  problem.  "If  I 
could  only  have  one  little  hour  alone  with  father," 
she  said,  "I  would  risk  the  result."  And  for  this  hour 
she  began  to  watch,  both  by  day  and  by  night. 

But  if  the  home  held  its  "skeleton,"  her  life  was 
not  wholly  unhappy.  Throughout  all  the  delightful 
vacation  they  of  the  "Beeches"  did  not  fail  to  include 
her  in  all  their  simple  merry-making. 

The  compact  of  "comradeship"  between  herself  and 
Clay,  so  misunderstood  by  Robert,  had  borne  a  rich 
fruitage  of  delightful  companionship.  Still  there  were 
times  when  this  friendship  hung  by  a  thread.  The 
young  Southerner  had  a  rare  sense  of  the  grotesque, 
and  a  gift  of  caricature  as  well.  It  was  inevitable  that 
local  subjects  should  be  forced  into  duty  as  "subjects." 
As  we  know,  Dorothy  had  objected  to  this  in  the  be- 
ginning, and  as  the  summer  progressed  her  lack  of 
enthusiasm  for  his  "works  of  art"  tried  the  embryo 


DOROTHY 

artist  not  a  little.  One  day,  in  great  glee,  he  showed 
her  a  "masterpiece"  underneath  which  he  had  written, 
"Laying  down  the  Law."  It  was  a  "Store"  group 
done  to  life,  with  Long  David  in  the  center,  evidently 
enunciating  some  mighty  fact. 

To  his  surprise  "the  little  lady,"  as  he  often  called 
her,  instead  of  joining  in  the  laugh  as  he  had  expected, 
seized  the  drawing  and  tore  it  into  shreds,  crying  out 
angrily^  "You  do  make  fun  of  us,  you  know  you  do!" 
The  young  man  looked  at  her  steadily,  then  said  softly, 
"Never  of  you,  little  Dorothy,  never  of  you,"  and  this 
was  very  true. 

Immediately  as  a  "peace-offering,"  that  was  not 
without  effect,  he  drew  yet  another  sketch.  From  his 
pencil  there  came  the  rapt,  almost  seraphic  face  of 
Barnolde.  The  body  was  slender  and  sinuous.  By 
a  few  deft  turns  of  the  pencil  a  curve  was  added,  now 
here,  now  there,  until  the  face  surmounted  a  snakey 
form;  from  which  one  might  argue  that  even  the 
"Beeches"  mistrusted  the  guest  at  the  Sumner  home. 

There  were  yet  other  points  of  contention  between 
the  two,  the  origin  of  which  neither  suspected.  Each 
was  the  product  of  a  distinct  type  of  civilization.  The 
one  type  had  grown  sturdy  and  self-reliant  among  the 
hills  and  rocks  of  Scotland,  scorning  all  help  save 
that  of  the  God  they  had  covenanted  with,  spilling  its 
blood  readily  for  the  cherished  doctrine  of  human  lib- 
erty, and  handing  down  the  virtue  of  self-reliance  to 
her  whom  the  Southerner  called  "Little  Comrade." 
The  ancestors  of  the  other  had  been  served  until  such 
service  had  become  a  part  of  life,  and  it  was  with  a 

146 


IN  THE  LIVERY  OF  HEAVEN 

distinct  sense  of  annoyance  that  this  latest  scion  of  a 
haughty  past  found  that,  during  this  Northern  spent 
summer  he  must  forego  these  same  personal  services. 
But  to  Dorothy,  that  one  well  and  strong  as  he  should 
take  it  as  his  right  to  be  served,  seemed  shameful,  and 
when  Aunt  Violet  would  hobble  to  fetch  him  a  desired 
object,  something  very  like  scorn  curled  upon  her  lips. 

The  blue  mist  that  constantly  overhung  "The 
Knobs"  seemed  ever  to  the  Professor  a  tantalizing  veil 
which  he  longed  to  tear  aside.  The  opportunity  came 
when,  near  the  close  of  the  vacation,  a  day's  outing 
in  their  fastnesses  was  planned';  an  outing  which,  of 
course,  included  Dorothy. 

She  was  up  on  that  particular  morning  with  the 
song  of  the  birds.  As  she  came  out  upon  the  back 
porch,  she  was  surprised  to  find  that  her  father  had 
been  up  before  her,  and  was  taking  the  fresh  morning 
air  in  an  easy  chair  which  "Cousin  Sarah"  had  drawn 
out  on  the  porch.  He  was  quite  alone;  for  the  Rev- 
erend Mr.  Barnolde,  not  being  entirely  weaned  from 
things  earthly,  was  at  the  moment  enjoying  his  morn- 
ing slumber. 

Dorothy's  coveted  opportunity  for  a  heart-to-heart 
talk  had  at  last  arrived.  In  a  moment  she  was  at  his 
side,  and  in  the  old  fashion  of  her  childhood  had  knelt 
beside  him,  her  head  upon  his  knee. 

"It  has  been  so  long,"  she  said,  "since  I  could  get 
near  you,  could  cuddle  down  and  love  you." 

The  soothing  presence  of  the  young  girl,  together 
with  the  healing  balm  of  the  morning,  was  not  with- 

147 


DOROTHY 

out  effect,  and  an  answering,  trembled  hand  stole  out 
and  rested  with  loving  benediction  upon  the  bowed 
head.  Overjoyed  at  the  privilege  of  the  moment, 
Dorothy  began  to  pour  out  all  the  burdens  of  her  hot 
little  heart. 

"O,  father,  will  you  not  send  that  dreadful  man 
away?  He  is  spoiling  our  home.  He  is  intruding  him- 
self between  us.  I  can  never  see  you,  never  serve  you." 

"Child,  despise  not  the  Lord's  anointed.  Remem- 
ber, we  are  not  to  speak  evil  of  ministers." 

"But  I  do  not  believe  he  is  a  minister;  but  whether 
he  is  or  not,  there  are  other  homes;  he  does  not  need 
to  remain  here.  O  have  him  go — anywhere,  so  he 
leaves  us  together." 

"Dorothy!"  John  Sumner  was  surely  arousing, 
"you  are  talking  without  reason.  He  not  a  minister?" 

"No,  father,  I  am  sure  he  has  deceived  you.  Even 
the  Professor  does  not  believe  he  is  what  he  claims  to 
be.  But  whether  he  is  or  is  not,  does  not  matter. 
Only  send  him  away,  and  let  us  be  together  again." 

"If  I  had  known  you  felt  so — " 

John  Sumner  seemed  as  if  awakening  from  a 
troubled  dream;  and  then  a  hurried  step  was  heard, 
a  door  opened,  and  Mr.  Barnolde,  consternation  writ- 
ten on  his  face,  appeared. 

"Why,  my  dear  brother,  what  do  you  here?  You 
risk  your  precious  health.  How  could  you  so  disturb 
him  ?"  this  to  Dorothy,  who  leaned  over  his  chair. 

Her  eyes  flashed.  She  was  not  quite  sure  how 
her  father  would  receive  what  she  was  about  to  say, 
but  if  the  home  was  ever  to  be  rid  of  its  incubus  she 


IN  THE  LIVERY  OF  HEAVEN 

felt  that  the  moment  had  come  for  action,  and  if  her 
father  would  not,  she  must  take  the  initiative. 

"Mr.  Barnolde,"  she  began  as  calmly  as  was  pos- 
sible, "your  anxiety  is  altogether  unnecessary.  You 
seem  to  have  thought  no  one  could  care  for  my  father 
but  yourself ;  a  rather  strange  conclusion  for  a  stranger. 
His  care  has  always  been  my  best  loved  task,  and  I 
will  not  yield  it  to  another." 

"You  have  grievously  misunderstood  the  impulses 
of  a  kind  heart,"  Barnolde  made  reply.  "What  did  I 
see  here?"  he  waved  his  hand  toward  Uncle  John, 
"but  a  lonely,  weak  old  man  trembling  on  the  brink 
of  eternity.  I  thought — 

"But  not  so  weak  as  you  supposed."  It  was  the 
surprisingly  strong  voice  of  Uncle  John  that  made  the 
interruption. 

Unwittingly  the  speaker  had  appealed  to  the  re- 
maining spark  of  that  virile  manhood  that  had  so  char- 
acterized him;  besides,  his  eyes  had  been  opened  to 
Dorothy's  unhappiness,  and  a  fear  had  been  born  in  his 
heart,  "What  if  Barnolde  were  untrue?" 

"I  fear,"  the  latter  heard  him  continue,  "we  have 
not  been  considering  my  daughter  as  much  as  we 
should.  I  did  not  know  that  your  presence  was  dis- 
tasteful to  her;  so — ' 

"I  have  called  and  called  breakfast.  Why  do  you 
not  come  ?"  It  was  Cousin  Sarah  who  made  the  inter- 
ruption. 

Hospitality  had  been  with  John  Sumner  a  virtue 
of  the  years,  and  he  at  once  said  to  the  discomfited 
man,  "Of  course  you  will  breakfast  with  us;  there  is 
I49 


DOROTHY 

no  occasion  for  a  sudden  rupture;  afterwards  we  will 
talk  certain  matters  over." 

The  early  meal  had  scarcely  begun,  when  a  familiar 
voice  outside  called,  "Why,  Dorothy,  not  ready  on 
this,  the  day  of  all  the  year!" 

Dorothy  gave  a  start.  She  had  quite  forgotten  the 
day's  outing  to  the  hills.  She  stood  perplexed.  Should 
she  go?  Inclination  said  not,  but  it  was  Uncle  John 
who,  in  his  old,  imperious  way  settled  the  matter. 

"Go;  there  has  been  little  enough  pleasure  knock- 
ing at  your  door.  Another  day  will  serve  us  as  well, 
and  you  may  tell  the  Professor  that  I  shall  then  want 
to  talk  over  certain  matters  with  him." 

So  Dorothy,  wondering  vaguely  what  part  the 
Professor  was  to  have  in  Mr.  Barnolde's  departure 
from  their  home,  made  a  few  hurried  preparations  and 
joined  Clay,  who  waited  a  bit  impatiently  at  the  door- 
way. 

And  John  Sumner  was  left  alone  with  the  bird  of 
prey! 

The  morning  was  superb,  and  as  the  two  ponies 
that  bore  the  young  people  took  the  tortuous  hill-path, 
the  burdens  that  had  been  so  real  to  Dorothy  suddenly 
rolled  away.  The  "skeleton"  was  about  to  depart 
from  the  home,  and  Uncle  John  (unexpected  happi- 
ness) was  certainly  better.  After  all  the  poet  was 
right,— 

"  God  is  in  His  heaven — 
All  is  right  with  His  world." 

The  young  man  by  Dorothy's  side  was  in  truth 
winsome  and   fair  to  look  upon — qualities  never  yet 
150 


IN  THE  LIVERY  OF  HEAVEN 

underrated  by  woman  born.  Besides  how  could  heart 
of  any  maid  resist  that  gracious  air  of  his,  that  defer- 
ence to  womankind?  Could  Dorothy?  Had  Dor- 
othy resisted?  Was  it  in  truth  (though  unconfessed) 
the  presence  of  the  debonnair  cavalier  by  her  side,  that 
made  the  day  so  wondrously  fair?  We  may  not  an- 
swer. But  we  may  record  that  as  the  two,  happy  as 
are  those  upon  whom  life  has  cast  no  shadow,  rode 
together  into  the  hills,  a  pair  of  earnest  eyes  came  out 
of  the  shadows,  and  looked  into  the  young  girl's  own, 
and  a  strong  face,  of  the  Savonarola  type,  that  could 
easily  bear  its  owner  to  a  martyrdom,  if  not  of  fire, 
then  of  self-abnegation,  seemed  wonderfully  close  to 
hers. 

It  was  the  face  of  Robert  Stirling,  with  whom  fate 
was  hastening  another  meeting. 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 
IN  A  SINGLE  DAY 

QUITE  unknown  to  the  rest  of  the  party,  Pro- 
fessor Williamson  had  an  object  in  the  day's  outing, 
not  wholly  in  the  line  of  pleasure. 

Once,  as  he  and  MacByrne  had  ridden  together 
over  these  hills  (their  errand  had  been  to  plead  that 
Robert  remain  in  school,  for  the  little  farm  was  about 
to  claim  him),  their  conversation  had  been  of  the  prob- 
able mineral  value  of  the  hills.  Returning,  they  had 
paused  at  an  unusual  ledge  of  rocks,  not  far  from 
Robert's  home.  MacByrne  had  taken  a  fragment  of 
the  same  in  his  hand,  scanning  it,  meanwhile,  with  the 
eye  of  a  critic. 

"Do  you  know,"  he  remarked  to  the  Professor, 
"this  is  identical  in  appearance,  and  I  believe  in  com- 
position, with  that  used  in  the  great  cement  works 
in  New  York?  If  it  is,"  he  continued,  "some  day  it 
will  be  utilized,  and  then  these  hills  will  come  into 
their  own." 

This  had  been  long  ago,  but,  from  a  paragraph  in 
a  recently  received  letter,  it  would  seem  that  "The 
Knobs"  and  their  possibilities  had  not  been  forgotten; 
for  MacByrne  had  asked  that,  at  the  earliest  oppor- 
tunity, the  Professor  secure  a  specimen  and  send  to 
an  assayer,  whom  he  named,  for  analysis.  The  ful- 
152 


IN  A  SINGLE  DAY 

filling  of  this  request  was  a  part  of  the  day's  appointed 
duties. 

Finally  the  hills  were  reached.  Quite  at  the  sum- 
mit of  the  one  over  which  their  winding  path  lay,  two 
large  trees,  an  oak  and  a  pine,  cast  their  united  shadow 
over  a  large,  smooth  rock.  This  the  party  at  once 
recognized  as  an  ideal  place  to  spread  the  luncheon. 
The  camp-fire  was  at  once  lighted ;  for  there  were  ears 
of  corn  and  potatoes  to  be  roasted,  and  the  fish  Clay 
and  Dorothy  were  expected  to  catch  were  to  be  broiled. 

Aunt  Violet  had  accompanied  the  party,  and  was 
soon  as  much  in  charge  as  if  she  were  in  her  own 
kitchen. 

Leaving  her  for  a  little  while,  the  Professor  and 
Mrs.  Williamson  picked  their  way  among  the  stones 
along  a  bridle-path,  until,  just  beyond  a  heavy  group 
of  saplings,  a  small  home,  little  better  than  a  cabin, 
stood  revealed.  This  the  Professor  pointed  out  as  the 
home  of  Robert  Stirling  and  his  mother. 

There  were  two  objects  in  the  visit  they  were  about 
making.  One  being  to  obtain  the  help  of  Robert  in 
securing  the  desired  specimen;  as  for  the  other,  the 
Professor  had  set  his  heart  on  having  mother  and  son 
lunch  with  the  party.  In  this  his  wife  heartily  agreed. 

The  two  were  at  home,  and  received  their  unex- 
pected guests  with  simple  grace. 

Upon  Mrs.  Williamson's  entrance  into  the  room 
her  attention  was  caught  by  a  single  piece  of  furniture 
quite  out  of  keeping  with  the  rest.  It  was  a  mahogany 
chest  of  drawers,  and  in  its  graceful  outlines  the  sur- 
prised lady  recognized  a  genuine  Chippendale.  The 


DOROTHY 

scrupulous  care  which  had  been  bestowed  upon  its 
polish  testified  to  the  high  esteem  in  which  it  was 
held.  After  the  greetings  she  could  not  refrain  from 
expressing  her  admiration. 

"It  belonged  to  my  grandfather,"  the  mother  ex- 
plained, not  without  a  touch  of  pride.  "He  valued 
it  highly.  I  think  it  was  his  mother's,  and  it  was  his 
wish  that  it  should  remain  in  the  family.  It  has  been 
a  little  harder,"  she  continued,  "to  respect  that  wish 
than  he  probably  ever  thought."  She  paused,  and  Mrs. 
Williamson  knew  she  was  recalling  its  last  hard  jour- 
ney northward. 

The  objects  of  the  visit  were  soon  made  known. 
Of  course,  Robert  would  help.  Indeed,  at  the  Pro- 
fessor's request,  to  have  quarried  the  entire  hill — had 
such  a  feat  been  possible — would  have  been  a  pleasure; 
but  as  for  joining  the  party  at  lunch,  he  shook  his  head. 
Somewhere  in  the  hills,  at  this  very  moment,  he  felt 
sure,  Dorothy  was  strolling  with  her  lover.  He  had 
no  desire  to  meet  either. 

While  he  was  lamely  trying  to  invent  an  excuse, 
he  caught  sight  of  his  mother's  wistful  face.  A  thought 
of  her  lonely  life  came  to  him. 

"Perhaps,"  he  thought,  "she  would  be  happier  for 
going;  if  so,"  and  his  lips  tightened,  "all  the  Dorothys 
in  the  world — though  in  truth  there  could  be  but  one — 
should  not  deprive  her  of  the  pleasure." 

"Yes,  we  will  be  happy  to  come,"  was  the  final 
reply. 

Meanwhile  another  scene  was  taking  place  farther 
down  the  ravine.  A  little  creek,  which  began  in  a 


IN  A  SINGLE  DAY 

series  of  springs  in  a  distant  spur,  wound  in  and  out 
among  the  hills,  wearing  for  itself  an  ever-deepening 
bed.  Finally,  finding  an  open  spot,  it  spread  itself  into 
a  broad  pool,  where  it  lay  deep  and  still  as  if  resting 
for  its  further  journey,  forming  an  ideal  spot  for 
fishermen.  To  this  Dorothy  and  Clay  had  at  once 
hastened.  Once  at  its  edge,  Dorothy  without  delay 
secured  a  vantage  seat,  and,  as  Clay  complained,  began 
at  once  "to  make  business  out  of  fun,"  and  the  call, 
"More  bait,  if  you  please,"  came  with  too  great  fre- 
quency. 

Clay  could  not  remember  a  similar  expedition,  when 
he  had  not  been  accompanied  by  an  ebony-hued 
"Cuffy,"  who  did  not  question  but  that  he  had  been 
born  for  the  specific  purpose  of  relieving  his  "young 
Marsa"  of  all  the  disagreeable  features  of  the  jaunt. 

"I  say,  Dorothy,"  Clay  called,  "I  wish  I  had  a 
'boy'  here.  I  would  keep  him  busy  for  this  one  hour 
anyway." 

Dorothy,  quite  sure  from  past  experiences  that  he 
was  trying  to  inveigle  her  into  an  argument,  very 
serenely,  and  in  the  utmost  silence,  watched  her  cork, 
which  was  bobbing  in  a  manner  to  satisfy  even  the 
renowned  Mr.  Walton. 

"I  said,  Dorothy,"  Clay  called  a  little  louder — 
"and  young  lady,  I  will  thank  you  to  listen — I  said  I 
wished  I  had  a  'boy'  here  to  wait  on  us.  Now,  what 
are  you  going  to  do  about  it?"  At  that  moment 
Dorothy's  line  swung  out,  curved  over  each  of  their 
heads,  and  a  large  bass  lay  floundering  at  Clay's  feet. 

"It  seems  to  me,"  the  girl  at  last  made  reply,  "if 


DOROTHY 

I  were  a  big,  strong  man  I  would  disdain" — there 
was  a  proper  amount  of  emphasis  on  the  verb — "to 
have  any  one  to  do  for  me  that  which  I  could  do  for 
myself." 

The  gauntlet  had  been  taken  up,  and  at  once  the 
old  battle  of  the  centuries  (oft  an  occasion  of  blood- 
soaked  battle-fields)  raged,  with  sharp  thrusts  of  words 
and  quick  repartee. 

"Dorothy,  really,  you  are  too  strenuous,  not  only 
in  your  principles,  but  in  your  present  efforts  to  pro- 
vide a  mere  dinner.  I  am  quite  exhausted  with  the 
contemplation.  Work  if  you  must;  but  as  for  me" — 
he  finished  his  sentence  by  thrusting  the  end  of  his 
pole  into  a  convenient  crevice  in  a  rock,  and  as  the 
hook  sank  into  the  water  he  apostrophized  it  thus: 
"There !  catch  a  fish  if  you  want  to ;  if  you  do  n't  it 
is  all  right ;  your  neighbor  will  catch  enough  for  two." 
Then  he  threw  himself  full  length  on  the  bank,  and 
hardly  aware  of  what  he  was  doing,  he  began  to  study 
the  young  girl  before  him,  as  he  had  not  studied  her 
before. 

It  was  realty  a  charming  picture  upon  which  he 
looked. 

The  sun,  filtering  through  the  straggling  branches 
of  the  trees,  touched  with  tint  of  gold  the  wavy  brown 
hair,  which,  in  the  fashion  of  the  time,  rippled  back 
from  the  clear  forehead^  and  fell  in  curls  over  her 
shoulders.  The  eyes,  now  that  the  girl  was  quiet, 
were  of  a  peaceful  blue;  but  Clay  knew  that,  with  the 
mood  of  the  owner,  they  could  lighten  with  merriment 
or  flash  fairly  black  with  scorn. 

156 


IN  A  SINGLE  DAY 

Perched  upon  a  rock,  she  was  the  one  touch  of 
"life"  needed  to  emphasize  the  charming  bit  of  rustic 
scenery,  of  which  she  was  a  part.  Some  such  a  thought 
must  have  passed  through  the  young  man's  mind,  for 
he  called  out:  "Dorothy,  you  are  looking  extremely 
well  this  morning;  but  of  course  you  are  aware  of 
that.  Wait  till  I  catch  that  pose!" — making  a  great 
pretense  of  sketching. 

At  this,  Dorothy  bent  over  her  line  apparently 
very  much  interested  in  the  lapping  waves  that  touched 
the  rock  on  which  she  sat.  There  was  a  dexterous 
turn  of  the  supple  wrist,  and  a  tiny  perch  gyrated  in 
the  air,  then  slowly  descended  till  the  quivering  thing 
brushed  Clay's  cheek,  who  quickly  thrust  it  aside. 
"And  you  are  looking  very  lazy,  but  of  course  you 
are  aware  of  that.  Stretched  out  so  comfortably,  you 
look  a  fit  subject  for  the  ministration  of  several  'cuf- 
fies.'  Pity  they  are  not  at  hand." 

How  much  more  she  might  have  said  remains  in 
doubt;  for  at  that  instant  the  pole  that  Clay  had 
planted  gave  a  violent  lurch.  His  sportsman  instincts 
thoroughly  aroused,  he  sprang  forward  to  grasp  it, 
and  soon  "the  catch  of  the  day,"  a  magnificent  trout, 
lay  at  his  feet. 

Dorothy  looked  on,  it  must  be  confessed,  a  bit 
envious — a  fact  that  did  not  escape  her  companion, 
who  could  not  refrain  from  a  parting  shot. 

"You  see,  little  Dorothy,  that  a  victory  that  is 
worth  while  belongs  by  right  to  the  one  who  plans 
rather  than  to  the  one  who  delves.  But  come,  let  us 
go;  we  already  have  enough  to  feed  a  regiment." 

157 


DOROTHY 

"No,"  Dorothy  replied.  "I  am  inclined  to  think 
you  require  a  rest  after  such  unusual  exertion ;  besides, 
though  a  mere  'delver,'  I  am  bound  to  match  your 
trout." 

Clay,  nothing  loath,  again  stretched  himself  out 
on  the  yielding  grass,  and  as  Dorothy  bent  to  her  self- 
imposed  task  he  resumed  his  interrupted  study  of  this 
sturdy  specimen  of  girlhood  who  understood  so  well 
the  game  of  "give  and  take." 

Involuntarily  he  closed  his  eyes;  he  was  catching 
a  glimpse  of  his  own  household — his  beautiful  mother 
as  he  remembered  her,  and  his  gracious  sister.  Again 
he  scrutinized  the  girl  on  the  bank:  "They  are  not 
more  beautiful  than  she;  no,  nor  a  whit  better,"  his 
judgment  whispered;  "and  yet — and  yet — "  he  was 
conscious  of  a  difference  he  could  not  put  in  words. 
"Aunt  Violet  is  right,"  he  said  at  last  under  his  breath; 
"these  people  are  not  'our  folks;'  they  just  can 
not  be." 

Once  more  his  eyes  closed,  and  another  shadow- 
face,  this  time  very  proud  and  wondrously  beautiful 
and  patrician  in  every  line,  seemed  to  come  between 
him  and  the  girl  on  the  bank;  and  at  this  he  covered 
his  face  with  his  hands,  and  thought  as  he  had  not 
during  all  the  idle  summer. 

An  exclamation  from  Dorothy  aroused  him,  and  he 
turned  to  see  a  trout  larger  than  his  own  floundering 
on  the  bank.  "Yes,  you  are  even  now;"  this  in  re- 
sponse to  Dorothy's  look  of  triumph ;  "but  see !  you  are 
flushed  and  tired,  while  I — "  He  broke  off  suddenly 
as  if  weary  of  the  whole  subject.  "Learn  a  lesson, 


IN  A  SINGLE  DAY 

little  girl ;  it  is  not  everything  to  be  strenuous."  After 
which  sage  reflection  the  two  began  to  pick  their  way 
back  to  the  camp,  over  and  around  fallen  logs.  Clay 
though  still  busy  with  his  thoughts,  being  none  the 
less  the  alert  comrade,  ready  to  render  the  little  atten- 
tions which  had  made  the  summer  a  delight  to  the 
girl,  and  had  set  for  her  (though  this  she  did  not 
realize)  henceforth  a  new  standard  of  manhood. 

A  turn  in  the  path  brought  into  view  a  ledge  of 
rocks,  at  which  the  Professor  and  a  companion,  whom 
each  recognized  as  Robert,  were  at  work  with  pick  and 
mallet. 

Was  it  fate  that  at  the  moment  of  recognition  a 
very  stubborn  brier  should  catch  in  the  hem  of  Dor- 
othy's dress,  and  that  Clay,  with  the  gallantry  of  his 
race,  should  stoop  to  remove  it?  Still  further,  that 
while  he  was  thus  busy,  he  should  say,  "Dorothy,  you 
know  the  sign  of  a  brier  in  your  dress?"  Dorothy 
knew  nothing  better;  but  of  course  she  must  needs  be 
told,  so  Clay  repeated  the  country-side  jingle,  "Catch 
a  brier,  catch  a  sweetheart;"  "and  say,  Dorothy,"  he 
continued,  "there  he  is,"  indicating  Robert.  "Watch 
how  savagely  he  glowers."  And  for  once  Dorothy 
had  ready  no  reply.  Robert  saw  the  whole  byplay, 
and  as  he  did  so  he  hit  the  rock  at  which  he  had  been 
pounding  such  a  savage  blow  that  an  extraordinary 
fine  specimen  was  dislodged,  and,  as  if  knowing  what 
was  expected,  fell  at  the  Professor's  feet. 

There  was  a  constrained  greeting  between  the 
young  people  as  they  met.  Clay  very  much  desired  to 
stay,  and  ostensibly  lent  a  hand,  but  in  reality  to  be- 

159 


DOROTHY 

come  better  acquainted  with  this  taH  young  Hercules 
who,  he  felt  sure,  had  a  regard  for  Dorothy.  But  there 
were  the  fish  to  be  taken  to  Aunt  Violet.  Well,  the 
"dinner  rock"  was  only  a  little  way  off.  A  bright 
idea  struck  him,  he  turned  to  Dorothy:  "Here,  Cuffy, 
take  these  fish  to  Aunt  Violet ;"  and  Dorothy,  catching 
the  humor  (this  had  been  the  charm  of  their  friend- 
ship), answered  promptly  with  a  courtesy:  "Yes, 
Massa,  take  tackle  too;"  and  before  he  could  hinder 
she  had  seized  the  tackle  that  lay  at  his  feet  and  was 
half  way  up  the  hill. 

The  questioning  surprise  of  the  Professor,  and  of 
Robert  as  well,  was  so  great  that  Clay  felt  obliged  to 
recall  the  conversation  at  the  pool.  "How  well  the 
two  understand  each  other!"  Robert  thought,  and  the 
world  proceeded  at  once  to  take  on  a  yet  inkier  hue. 

At  the  dinner  it  was  evident  that  no  mistake  had 
been  made  in  the  invitations.  The  "little  mother"  was 
soon  quite  at  ease  with  these  friends  of  her  son. 

Pride  came  to  the  rescue  of  Robert,  as  it  has  a 
habit  of  coming  to  its  votaries.  There  were  many 
topics  in  common  for  conversation  between  himself 
and  the  Professor;  MacByrne  being  one  (with  whom, 
it  came  out,  each  kept  in  touch),  the  probable  outcome 
of  the  rock  analysis  another,  and  the  future  of  the  hill- 
country  in  connection  with  it. 

Toward  the  close  of  the  meal,  Clay  gave  the  party 
a  distinct  surprise.  Turning  to  his  sister  he  said, 
"Millicent,  I  believe  it  is  high  time  for  me  to  start 
towards  the  university." 

A  chorus  of  surprised  exclamations  interrupted  him. 
1 60 


IN  A  SINGLE  DAY 

After  the  first  outbreak  he  continued :  "It  seems  hardly 
like  a  vacation  without  a  run  down  to  the  old  home 
neighborhood ;  so,  while  you  have  been  talking,  I  have 
been  planning,  and  I  believe  I  will  start  at  once,  to- 
night if  Aunt  Violet  can  get  me  ready.  I  will  go 
directly  to  Richmond,  look  in  on  the  aunts  there,  visit 
Van  Allen  at  his  home  for  a  few  days  as  I  promised, 
then  we  will  go  to  Harvard  together." 

"Van"  had  been  Clay's  room-mate  during  the  en- 
tire time  he  had  spent  at  the  university,  and  the  Aliens 
had  been  neighbors  of  the  Worthingtons  in  happier 
years,  and  it  will  be  recalled  that  it  was  a  visit  to  this 
home  that  Clay  had  given  up  in  order  to  summer  at 
the  "Beeches." 

The  Williamsons  were  used  to  Clay's  comings  and 
goings — their  "Will  o'  the  Wisp,"  they  sometimes 
called  him — so  they  took  his  announcement  without 
surprise.  "Clay  is  young;  Time  will  steady  him,"  his 
sister  was  wont  to  add,  lovingly. 

Aunt  Violet,  however,  was  loud  in  her  lamenta- 
tions; he  was  "her  own  chile,  that  she  had  missed," 
and  his  going  would  leave  an  actual  void  in  her  life. 

Two  pairs  of  eyes  covertly  watched  Dorothy, 
stealthily  noting  the  effect  upon  her  of  the  new  plans. 

Is  it  true,  as  some  aver,  that  vanity  is  inherent  in 
the  masculine  heart?  Be  the  answer  as  it  may,  Clay, 
who  in  the  beginning  had  so  insistently  urged  the  bond 
of  comradeship,  felt  not  a  little  chagrin  that  Dorothy 
took  his  announcement  with  scarcely  more  ado  than  if 
he  had  declared  his  intention  to  fetch  a  pail  of  water 
from  the  near-by  spring.  Indeed  so  undisturbed  was 


DOROTHY 

sue,  that  Robert,  also  watching  her,  said  under  his 
breath,   "They  have  already  talked  the  going  over." 

The  coming  years  alone  might  determine  whether 
she  was  at  heart  as  unaffected  as  she  seemed,  or  whether 
the  early  philosophy  of  Aunt  Lucy  had  become  her 
own,  and  she,  too,  had  learned  "never  to  let  on." 

But  not  one  of  the  happy  group  that  sat  about  the 
improvised  table  and  did  justice  to  Aunt  Violet's  camp- 
cooking,  guessed  that,  before  the  day  should  end,  there 
was  that  to  happen  which  should  make  its  simple  pleas- 
ures a  mocking  memory. 

On  the  homeward  trip  the  Professor  and  his  wife 
changed  places  with  Clay  and  Dorothy,  and  themselves 
rode  on  ahead,  the  younger  people  jogging  behind  in 
the  light  wagon,  in  which  Aunt  Violet  sat  supreme, 
amid  sundry  picnic  baskets. 

Dorothy  had  succeeded  in  starting  the  latter  upon 
her  favorite  theme,  "de  good  ole  times,"  which  recital 
Clay  interspersed  with  humorous  quips  of  his  own. 
Suddenly  they  observed  a  man  driving  hurriedly 
towards  them. 

He  stopped,  and  talked  earnestly  a  moment  with 
the  Professor,  who  turned,  and  the  two  together  came 
slowly  back  to  the  wagon.  Dorothy,  seeing  the  move- 
ment, felt  her  throat  tighten,  and  her  heart  falter 
in  its  throbs. 

In  that  instant  there  swept  in  upon  her  a  vision 
of  her  home,  of  her  father,  even  of  Barnolde, — all 
these  had  been  forgotten  in  the  pleasures  of  the  day. 
With  a  premonition  of  coming  sorrow  she  sprang  un- 
assisted from  the  wagon. 

162 


IN  A  SINGLE  DAY 

The  Professor  had  now  reached  her.  His  face 
was  very  grave  and  overspread  with  sympathy.  He 
laid  his  hand  upon  her  shoulder,  and,  as  in  a  dream, 
she  heard  him  say: 

"Dorothy,  you  had  better  get  in  this  buggy  that 
has  been  brought  for  you.  Your  father,  they  fear,  is 
dying." 


163 


CHAPTER  XIX. 
" EARTH  TO  EARTH" 

As  A  bolt  of  lightning  descending  suddenly  from 
the  heavens  is  able  to  touch  with  its  consuming  blast 
the  strongest  oak  of  the  forest,  and  in  an  instant  its 
heavy  protecting  bark  is  stripped  from  it,  so,  with  this 
sad  message  ringing  in  her  ear,  the  incidents  of  the 
day  dropped  from  the  mind  of  the  stricken  girl,  and 
her  thoughts  were  only  of  the  dying  father  to  whom 
she  was  hurrying.  As  she  crouched  on  the  seat  by  the 
pitying  neighbor,  she  gave  herself  up  to  the  grief  of 
the  hour,  moaning  over  and  over  the  refrain,  "O,  if 
I  had  remained  at  home !  O,  if  I  only  had  not  gone !" 

It  is  difficult  to  comfort  one  in  the  throes  of  be- 
reavement. Words  seem  but  the  emptiest  platitudes, 
so  the  kind-hearted  man  could  only  reply:  "There, 
child,  do  n't  cry.  You  did  not  know  this  was  going 
to  happen.  None  of  us  ever  know  in  this  world  what 
a  day  will  bring  forth."  Notwithstanding  the  attempt 
at  comfort,  the  girl  continued  to  sob  until  the  home 
was  reached. 

Once  there,  everything  seemed  strangely  unfamil- 
iar. A  neighbor  met  her  at  the  gate  and  silently  helped 
her  out,  bidding  her  be  quiet  lest  the  dying  man  be 
disturbed.  Kindly  neighbors  had  gathered  in  little 
groups  in  the  kitchen,  or  stood  talking  in  hushed  tones 
164 


"EARTH  TO  EARTH" 

under  the  trees  in  the  yard  (blessed  country  people, 
never  too  busy  to  wait  with  sympathetic  hush  the  pass- 
ing of  a  soul!)  These  silently  made  way  for  her  as 
she  passed.  In  a  few  minutes  she  learned  from  Cousin 
Sarah  the  events  of  the  day. 

After  her  going  in  the  morning,  her  father  had  ap- 
peared unusually  alert,  and  going  to  the  "Store" 
(which  was  itself  unusual),  was  at  once  interested  in 
the  day's  business.  Early  in  the  afternoon  he  had  dis- 
patched "Joe"  with-  a  message  to  the  office  of  Squire 
Hubbard  (an  old  and  trusted  friend),  and  had  seemed 
greatly  disappointed  to  learn  that  he  was  absent  at  the 
former  county  seat,  and  would  not  return  during  the 
day.  A  discussion  then  arose  between  himself  and 
the  Reverend  Barnolde,  who  had  become  aware  of  the 
message  sent.  "Joe"  could  not  fully  understand  the 
matter  in  dispute,  but  was  sure  it  was  in  reference  to 
certain  papers.  Finally  the  two  passed  from  the 
"Store"  into  the  house,  Uncle  John  unusually  wrought 
up  over  the  matter  in  dispute.  They  had  gone  into 
an  inner  room,  the  elder  man's  thin,  sharp  tones  mean- 
while rising  higher,  opposed  by  the  mellifluous  yet  now 
positive  ones  of  his  companion.  Finally  Barnolde  had 
gone  to  his  own  room,  and  as  Uncle  John  had  come 
on  out  into  the  kitchen,  Cousin  Sarah  noticed  that  he 
seemed  faint,  and  immediately  pulled  into  its  place  his 
chair.  He  had  stood  for  a  moment  looking  pensively 
out  of  the  vine-covered  window,  then  tottered  and  sank 
into  the  waiting  chair,  quite  unconscious. 

The  family  physician  was  hurriedly  summoned. 
At  the  first  glance  he  had  looked  grave,  and  uttered 

,65 


DOROTHY 

the  single  word,  "Apoplexy,"  and  added,  "No,  he 
can  not  recover,  he  will  probably  not  regain  conscious- 
ness." 

As  the  young  girl  entered  the  darkened  room,  the 
sufferer  lay  very  quiet,  his  life  ebbing  peacefully  away.' 
By  his  side  sat  the  shaggy  country  doctor,  the  sym- 
pathetic arbiter  of  fate  for  these  many  years  to  the 
country  round  about. 

He  gently  rose  and  made  way  for  Dorothy,  who 
sank  on  her  knees  by  the  dying  man.  Even  in  the 
extremity  of  her  emotion,  it  did  not  escape  her  that, 
standing  in  the  dim  shadows  of  the  room,  silently 
watching  her  and  all  that  occurred,  was  the  Reverend 
Barnolde. 

"O  father,"  she  called,  "O  why  did  I  go?  Father, 
you  must  speak  if  only  to  tell  me  that  I  am  forgiven. 
I  did  not  dream, — how  could  I  know?"  she  wailed. 

Tears  coursed  down  the  kind  face  of  the  doctor, 
familiar  as  he  was  with  these  last  sad  scenes.  "You 
could  not  have  helped,  Dorothy,  had  you  been  here; 
no  one  could,"  he  told  her.  But  she,  through  her  fall- 
ing tears,  continued  to  stroke  the  wan  hands,  and  with 
gentle  touch  to  caress  the  ever-kind  face,  already  tak- 
ing on  the  majesty  of  death. 

She  could  not  believe  he  would  go  without  a  word ; 
so,  after  the  first  burst  of  emotion,  she  still  continued 
to  call,  "Father,  father,  you  will  surely  speak  to 
Dorothy." 

To  the  surprise  of  all,  as  if  in  response  to  the 
call,  the  closed  eyes  slowly  opened,  and  with  unutter- 
able tenderness  centered  themselves  on  the  kneeling, 

1 66 


"EARTH  TO  EARTH" 

sobbing  girl ;  then  looking  away  as  if  in  search,  paused 
at  sight  of  a  figure  in  the  doorway. 

It  was  that  of  Professor  Williamson,  who  had  fol- 
lowed hard  after  Dorothy.  An  unexpected  thrill  of 
returning  life  now  animated  the  prostrate  form,  and 
he  made  as  if  he  would  rise.  The  Professor,  in  an- 
swer to  the  beseeching  look,  immediately  bent  over  him 
and  asked  if  there  was  something  he  wished  done.  At 
the  same  instant  Barnolde  stepped  forward  till  he,  too, 
was  at  the  stricken  man's  side.  It  was  pitiful  to  watch 
the  effort  to  make  the  tired  lips  once  more  respond  to 
the  bidding  of  the  strong  soul  that  had  tenemented 
within. 

Slowly  a  few  words  were  articukted.  "You — get 
— paper,  ink — quick!"  Though  surprised  at  the  re- 
quest, an  attendant  hastened  for  the  articles.  At  this 
the  Reverend  Barnolde  leaned  over  and,  taking  Uncle 
John's  hand,  said  piously: 

"Dear  brother,  do  not  disturb  yourself  about  things 
earthly.  Jordan  is  very  near.  Earth  recedes,  dear 
brother — "  The  exhortation,  however  well  meant, 
was  not  continued,  for  at  the  sound  of  the  voice  the 
aroused  man  sank  back  wearily,  even  hopelessly,  and 
soon  the  heavy  breathing  told  that  unconsciousness  had 
returned;  an  unconsciousness  never  to  be  broken  till 
the  tired  brain,  happily  free  from  all  pain,  should  put 
on  new  strength  and  awake  in  the  likeness  of  Him 
who  said,  "Inasmuch  as  ye  have  done  it  unto  one  of 
the  least  of  these,  ye  have  done  it  unto  Me." 

The  outgoing  life  might  well  claim  this  promise, 
for  it  had  been  indeed  rich  in  ministry. 

167 


DOROTHY 

Middletown,  always  with  a  predilection  for  funer- 
als, had  never  known  such  a  one  as  gathered  in  the 
little  church — itself  so  much  a  part  of  that  life  that 
was  gone — to  do  honor  to  the  memory  of  the  departed. 
Curiosity  had  little  part  in  the  gathering,  for  these 
were  the  friends  of  a  lifetime,  and  many  held  in  their 
hearts  the  memory  of  a  kindness  shown.  For  instance, 
there  were  certain  women  who  sat  during  the  sermon 
with  tears  quietly  coursing  down  their  sun-browned 
faces;  these  were  still  known  in  the  village  as  "sol- 
diers' wives,"  and  each  was  mentally  recalling  times 
when  the  pitiful  "thirteen  dollars"  a  month  failing  to 
arrive,  Uncle  John  had  stood  between  them  and  actual 
hunger;  for  it  had  been  a  maxim  at  the  "Store"  that 
no  soldier's  wife  should  be  denied  the  necessities  of 
life. 

At  the  close  of  the  service,  as  the  company  filed 
silently  by  the  open  coffin,  one  of  these  women  lingered 
unusually  long,  and  even"  at  the  last  moment  turned 
away  reluctantly.  She  and  the  incident  that  held  her 
to  the  still  face  in  the  coffin  were  well  known.  It  had 
occurred  while  her  husband  was  "at  the  front."  News 
had  not  been  received  from  him  for  weeks.  During 
these  days  of  anxiety,  when  hunger  was  knocking  at 
the  door,  a  creditor,  through  the  proper  officer,  levied 
on  the  family  cow,  and  it  was  driven  away.  That 
•night,  as  the  helpless  mother  sat  stunned,  her  hungry 
children  about  her,  suddenly  her  ten-year-old  son  called 
out,  "Mother,  mother,  look!  there  is  Brindle!"  Sure 
enough,  outside  in  the  shadow  stood  a  man  letting  down 
the  bars  in  order  that  Brindle,  evidently  in  a  hurry, 
1 68 


"EARTH  TO  EARTH" 

might  pass  in.  This  accomplished,  he  turned  and  was 
gone  without  a  word.  That  man  now  lay  before  her, 
and  it  was  into  his  face  that  the  still  grateful  woman 
looked.  And,  seeing  her,  the  villagers  recalled  how  at 
the  time  John  Sumner,  hearing  of  the  outrage,  had 
faced  the  creditor,  paid  the  debt,  and  delivered  mean- 
while, it  was  openly  hinted,  a  caustic  lecture  gratis. 

To  the  young  girl,  who  sat  closely  veiled,  the  whole 
seemed  a  dream  from  which  she  must  awaken.  It  was 
a  part  of  the  same  dream  that  presently  some  one  should 
hand  her  gently  into  a  carriage,  and  that,  although  the 
way  lay  along  the  familiar  street,  it  should  seem  un- 
usual and  shadowy. 

As  in  a  dream  she  saw  a  mother  step  out  of  a  door- 
way and  still  some  children  at  their  play,  and  it  came 
over  her  that  once  she,  too,  had  played  as  did  the  chil- 
dren; once  she  had  been  happy  as  they  were  happy; 
but  this  was  long  ago,  O  so  long  ago ! 

Finally  there  came  the  harsh  sound  of  falling  earth, 
then  the  solemn  voice  of  the  preacher  committing  dust 
to  its  mother  dust.  All  was  over.  Once  more  she  was 
quite  alone  in  the  world. 

"Well,  it 's  mighty  queer,  that  is  all  1  ve  got  to 
say  about  it."  Middletown  had  now  gotten  its  breath, 
and  was  discussing  happenings  of  the  hurried  days  fol- 
lowing the  sudden  death  of  their  neighbor.  Each  in 
turn  had  found  it  impossible  to  account  for  the  sudden 
absence  of  the  Reverend  Mr.  Barnolde,  who,  it  had 
transpired,  had  left  the  village  almost,  if  not  quite, 
simultaneously  with  the  death  of  John  Sumner.  It  was 

.69 


DOROTHY 

vaguely  reported  that  he  was  called  away  by  sudden 
sickness;  but  the  neighbors  shook  their  heads,  and 
"  'lowed"  that  it  was  the  "queerest  thing  they  had  ever 
known."  "As  good  as  Uncle  John  had  been  to  him, 
too!"  one  added.  "Seems  like  he  ought  to  have  staid, 
if  only  for  the  looks  of  things." 

"May  be  there  was  death  or  sickness  in  his  own 
home,"  one  less  critical  urged. 

"Well,  if  there  was,  he  should  have  said  so,  out  and 
out.  We  would  all  have  felt  better."  And  this  the 
larger  part  of  dissatisfied  Middletown  continued  to 
urge. 

Meanwhile  sorrowing,  conscience-stricken  Dorothy 
carried  a  new  burden.  Each  sentence  of  that  last  inter- 
view with  her  father  and  with  this  man  so  distasteful 
to  her  seemed  burned  into  her  brain.  "Had  she  done 
wrong?"  she  asked  herself  over  and  over. 


170 


CHAPTER  XX. 
A  FRIEND  NEEDED 

To  GATHER  up  the  snapped  threads  of  life,  to  go 
on  with  the  mockery  of  living  when  all  is  gone  that 
makes  life  worth  while,  is  one  of  the  hardest  trials  that 
await  the  bereaved. 

This  Dorothy  realized  as  she  went  about  the  now 
strangely  silent  house.  It  seemed  to  her  at  times  that 
she  must  surely  find  him  who  had  been  its  soul,  sitting, 
as  was  his  wont,  by  the  western  window. 

It  was  well  for  her,  at  this  juncture,  that  she  had 
the  motherly  sympathy  of  Millicent  Williamson  anJ 
the  fatherly  protection  of  the  Professor.  She  had  yet 
more,  for  the  entire  neighborhood  owned  a  peculiar 
and  sympathetic  interest  in  the  again  orphaned  girl. 
Many,  recalling  her  own  father  and  mother,  had 
watched  with  satisfaction  her  growth  toward  woman- 
hood. As  these  peered  into  her  future,  all  rejoiced 
that,  in  their  own  parlance,  "Uncle  John  had  been  well 
off,"  and  if  he,  then  Dorothy;  for  there  were  no  rela- 
tives save  Cousin  Sarah  (she  who  had  kept  the  home), 
and  she  was  ''comfortable,"  and  to  spare. 

None  turned  these  matters  over  their  mind  more 
frequently,  nor  to  a  better  purpose,  than  did  Professor 
Williamson. 

One  day,  shortly  after  the  burial,  in  a  conversation 
171 


DOROTHY 

with  Dorothy,  he  asked  her:  "Did  you  ever  hear  your 
father  speak  of  a  will?  Or  do  you  know  anything  of 
the  whereabouts  of  such  a  document?" 

She  shook  her  head.  In  all  her  life  she  had  neither 
thought  nor  heard  of  such  a  matter. 

The  Professor  looked  troubled.  "It  would  simplify 
matters  so,"  he  explained  as  her  eyes  asked  why. 

But  his  question  was  soon  answered,  and  in  a  man- 
ner wholly  unexpected. 

The  day's  mail  brought  him  an  unusual  package. 
Breaking  its  seal,  he  found,  to  his  surprise,  besides  a 
formidable  looking  document,  a  communication  from 
the  Rev.  Mr.  Barnolde,  which,  after  a  very  brief  intro- 
duction, called  attention  to  the  inclosed  verbatim  copy — 
so  the  writer  said — of  a  will,  the  original  of  which 
would  be  found  in  the  possession  of  A.  Kenge,  a  resi- 
dent Middletown  lawyer;  and  in  which  it  would  be 
found  that  the  late  John  Sumner  had  bequeathed  his 
entire  estate,  including  all  personal  property,  to  the 
writer,  to  be  held  in  trust  for  the  establishment  of  a 
Home  for  friendless  children  in  the  now  rapidly  grow- 
ing town  of  Middletown. 

A  few  sentences  followed,  which  hypocritically  re- 
cited the  reluctance  he  had  felt  at  undertaking  the 
trust,  and  how  he  had  finally  consented  from  an  im- 
perative sense  of  duty. 

He  went  on  to  say,  further,  that  owing  to  the 
friendly  relations  existing  between  the  "Beeches"  and 
Miss  Sumner,  he  had  thought  best  to  communicate 
first  with  him  (the  Professor),  as  he  desired  to  call 
especial  attention  to  the  codicil  in  which  Mr.  Sumner 
172 


A  FRIEND  NEEDED 

had  expressed  the  wish  that  his  daughter  might  find  it 
in  her  heart  to  further  the  proposed  plan.  And  then 
the  writer  added  that  this  would  be  peculiarly  satis- 
factory to  himself,  as  he  was  about  to  write  her. 

Professor  Williamson  was  usually  a  model  of  calm- 
ness, but  at  the  unexpected  disclosure  he  was  excited 
beyond  measure.  He  had  barely  glanced  at  the  "copy" 
which,  he  noted,  began  with  the  usual  phrases,  when 
it  occurred  to  him  that  on  so  important  a  matter  he 
would  need  concurring  counsel.  He  thought  at  once 
of  Squire  Hubbard,  who,  he  knew,  had  for  years  looked 
after  the  legal  business  of  John  Sumner,  and  whose  ab- 
sence on  the  day  that  the  latter  had  been  taken  ill  was 
•so  regretted.  Losing  no  time,  he  sought  him,  and  sub- 
mitted the  "copy"  and  the  letter  as  well. 

"The  hypocritical  fraud!"  was  the  Squire's  com- 
ment after  he  had  hurriedly  read.  "He  is  by  no  means, 
though,  the  first  to  steal  the  livery  of  heaven  to  serve 
the  devil  in."  But  his  face  grew  grave  as  he  continued : 

"Do  you  know  I  regard  this  as  a  serious  matter? 
Again  and  again  I  advised  John  Sumner — friend  as 
well  as  client — to  put  on  paper  what  I  knew  to  be  his 
wishes  for  the  child  he  loved  as  his  own.  But  he  always 
put  me  aside.  You  know  there  are  some  who  regard 
such  preparations  as  a  notice  to  Death  that  one  is  ready 
to  receive  him.  This  was  pre-eminently  true  of  John 
Sumner.  Suppose  we  go  at  once  and  examine  the 
original." 

Kenge  they  knew  as  a  nondescript  lawyer  who  had 
floated  into  the  changing  village,  and  whose  chief  char- 
acteristic had  appeared  to  be  an  inordinate  hunger  for 

173 


DOROTHY 

clients.  They  found  the  gentleman  in,  and  from  his 
manner  evidently  expecting  them. 

"Yes,"  he  replied  in  answer  to  their  inquiry,  "my 
client  left  with  me  for  safe  keeping  the  original,  a  copy 
of  which,  he  writes  me,  he  has  submitted  to  you."  So 
saying  he  drew  from  a  drawer  a  closely  written  docu- 
ment, which  he  spread  before  them. 

"I  may  as  well  tell  you,"  he  continued,  "that  it 
was  my  pleasure  to  prepare  this  will  at  the  desire,  and 
in  accordance  with  the  wishes,  of  the  testator,  the  late 
John  Sumner,  and  to  witness  his  signature." 

The  two  friends  eagerly  scanned  the  submitted 
document.  It  began : 

"Whereas,  I,  John  Sumner,  being  in  my  right  mind, 
do  give  and  bequeath  to  the  Reverend  Henry  Barnolde, 
the  following  properties,  to  wit:" 

Here  followed  a  description  of  certain  properties, 
each  enumerated  item  familiar  to  the  Squire. 

"The  same  to  be  held  in  trust  by  the  said  Barnolde, 
and  to  be  used  by  him  in  establishing  and  maintaining 
a  Home  for  friendless  children  in  this  my  home,  Mid- 
dletown." 

The  document  was  to  all  appearances  genuine.  It 
being  attested  by  Uncle  John's  own  signature,  familiar 
for  miles  around.  It  was  witnessed  to,  by  a  name 
unfamiliar  to  both,  but  finally  recalled  as  that  of  a 
young  man  who  had  been  an  employee  in  Kenge's 
office. 

Following  the  signature  was  an  added  codicil,  dated 
a  month  later.  This,  unlike  the  will,  was  written 
throughout  in  John  Sumner's  own  hand,  and  evidently 

T74 


A  FRIEND  NEEDED 

at  his  own  home,  he  having  (according  to  Mr.  Kenge) 
on  a  certain  date,  called  for  the  will,  had  retained  it 
for  a  time,  and  then  returned  it  with  the  addition.  The 
codicil  read : 

"It  is  my  further  wish  that  my  daughter  Dorothy, 
if  she  so  inclines,  shall  lend  herself  to  the  cause  that 
lies  so  near  my  heart.  Further,  that  until  the  neces- 
sary building  be  erected,  the  family  home  shall  be  open 
to  receive  such  children,  for  whom  application  shall  be 
made.  As  she  was  herself  welcomed  to  this  home,  I 
beg  that,  in  my  name,  she  welcome  others.  Freely 
she  has  received,  let  her  freely  give." 

"Cruel,"  the  Professor  muttered  under  his  breath. 

"But  that  does  not  sound  like  John  Sumner,"  the 
Squire  made  response. 

"What  do  you  think  of  it  all?"  It  was  the  Pro- 
fessor who  asked  when  they  had  passed  into  the 
open  air. 

"I  do  not  pretend  to  understand  it,"  the  Squire  re- 
sponded. "But  I  believe  any  court  will  hold  it 
genuine." 

"And  Dorothy  is  penniless?" 

"I  fear  so,"  the  Squire  replied,  soberly,  adding, 
"She  must  know  about  this.  You  had  better  see  her 
at  once." 

At  this,  the  Professor  recalled  the  clause  in  the 
letter  to  himself  in  which  Barnolde  had  said  he  was 
"about  to  communicate  with  Miss  Sumner."  He  must 
be  beforehand,  he  thought,  with  the  story  he  had  to  tell. 

As  he  directed  his  steps  toward  the  Sumner  home 
he  grew  anxious  lest  the  promised  letter  had  already 

175 


DOROTHY 

arrived.  Seeing  that  another  mail  was  in,  he  turned 
into  the  post-office,  and  made  inquiry  in  Dorothy's 
name,  and  was  not  at  all  surprised  to  have  handed  him 
the  expected  letter.  He  turned,  and  soon  knocked  at 
the  door  of  the  great  kitchen  where  he  knew  he  would 
find  both  Cousin  Sarah  and  Dorothy. 

After  greeting  them,  he  said  to  the  latter,  who  had 
risen,  "Sit  down,  Dorothy,  and  you" — this  to  Cousin 
Sarah — "you  must  each  hear  the  strange  thing  I  have 
come  to  tell  you."  First  he  produced  and  read  Bar- 
nolde's  letter  to  himself.  Their  surprise  was  beyond 
words.  Then  he  told  of  his  visit,  in  company  with  the 
Squire,  to  the  office  of  Lawyer  Kenge,  and  of  the  ex- 
amination of  the  document,  and  added,  "Dorothy,  this 
whole  affair  is  beyond  our  understanding,  but  rest  as- 
sured, the  unjust  will  must  be  proven  genuine  before 
your  friends  will  allow  it  to  be  accepted." 

But  Dorothy  had  not  yet  caught  the  import  of  it, 
nor  did  she,  until  Cousin  Sarah  arose,  and,  crossing 
the  room,  put  her  arms  about  her,  and,  amid  falling 
tears,  cried  out:  "Never  mind,  dear,  I  can  not  believe 
John  meant  to  do  this  dreadful  thing.  But  do  not 
worry.  I  have  enough  for  both  of  us."  And  with  this 
the  truth  burst  upon  her. 

It  is  difficult  to  analyze  correctly  a  flood  of  emo- 
tions that  suddenly  overwhelm  one.  But  Dorothy  was 
conscious  of  one  that  was  supreme — a  terrible  heart 
hurt. 

Of  the  mere  matter  of  houses  and  lands  she  did  not 
think,  but  that,  in  a  plan  or  wish  that  had  lain  near 
his  heart,  her  father  had  held  no  thought  of  her,  had  in 

176 


A  FRIEND  NEEDED  * 

fact  ignored  her — ah!  there  lay  the  sting.  Had  he 
but  honored  her  with  his  confidence,  how  gladly  she 
would  have  lent  herself  to  the  carrying  out  of  his 
wishes;  but  to  do  so  in  conjunction  with  Barnolde — 
that  she  could  not  do,  though  the  expressed  wish  of  her 
father  lay  before  her  in  the  writing  she  knew  so  well. 

"Dorothy,"  the  gentle  voice  of  Professor  William- 
son recalled  her,  "he  who  is,  I  am  sure,  responsible 
for  all  this  trouble,  said  he  would  write  you.  The 
letter  has  just  arrived.  I  will  wait  'to  see  if  it  contains 
anything  that  I,  as  your  friend,  ought  to  know." 

With  a  feeling  that,  on  this  day  of  surprises,  noth- 
ing need  be  surprising,  she  received  the  letter  into  her 
hand.  As  she  did  so,  a  shudder  passed  over  her.  She 
seemed  to  feel  the  presence  of  the  writer,  and  to  be 
as  unable  to  extricate  herself  as  is  the  song-bird  under 
the  fateful  spell  of  the  serpent  that  charms  it  unto 
death. 

At  length  she  broke  the  seal  and  began  to  read.  As 
she  continued  her  eyes  widened  in  horror,  a  crimson 
flush  overspread  her  face,  and  then,  with  a  gesture  of 
disdain,  she  flung  the  offending  epistle  far  from  her, 
and,  putting  up  both  hands,  sat  with  covered  face. 

"Dorothy,  I  must  know  what  has  so  distressed  you." 
So  saying,  the  Professor  recovered  the  letter,  and  read 
from  the  beginning  to  the  end. 

"How  crafty  the  man!"  was  the  Professor's 
thought;  "by  this  double  stroke  he  has  thought  not 
only  to  silence  all  troublesome  questions,  but" — and  his 
eyes  fell  on  the  now  weeping  girl — "also  gain  yon  dear 
little  wood-thrush  for  himself." 
177 


DOROTHY 

"Do  not  mind,  Dorothy,"  this  aloud ;  "I  will  reply 
to  this.  In  the  meantime  dry  your  tears.  This  part  of 
it  all  need  never  be  known  outside  of  your  own  home 
and  the  'Beeches.'  " 

The  reply  soon  reached  Mr.  Barnolde.  In  its  read- 
ing that  gentleman,  greatly  chagrined,  gleaned  two 
facts,  one  being  that  the  dearest  wish  in  the  entire  con- 
spiracy had  forever  miscarried;  the  other,  that  until 
public  opinion  (always  fickle)  had  veered  somewhat, 
his  business  in  Middletown  were  better  done  by  proxy. 


178 


CHAPTER  XXI. 
HOMELESS 

IT  is  curious  to  reflect  upon  the  mental  processes 
by  which,  in  a  crisis,  the  mind  of  a  community  may 
become  a  unit.  It  is  apt  to  start  with  certain  well- 
defined  premises  and  principles.  It  then  weighs  all 
evidence,  brushes  away,  with  a  mere  sweep  of  the  hand, 
all  specious  reasoning,  and  arrives  at  a  conclusion  from 
which  there  is  no  appeal. 

The  matter  of  the  strange  will  at  once  overbalanced 
every  other  in  Middletown.  For  once  the  mere  ques- 
tion of  "improvements"  slid  abashed  into  the  back- 
ground. When  one  person  met  another,  they  at  once 
formed  a  committee  that  went  into  immediate  session, 
considering  the  unprecedented  matter  down  to  the  last 
detail. 

The  arguments  usually  ran  as  follows : 

John  Sumner  they  had  known,  only  to  honor.  That 
throughout  his  life  he  had  been  at  heart  a  philan- 
thropist, was  conceded.  But  if  this  were  an  acknowl- 
edged characteristic,  there  was  another:  he  had  been 
unflinchingly  just;  and  that  the  will  was  manifestly 
unjust,  all  agreed. 

"It  was  unthinkable,"  one  said  to  another,  "that 

such  a  man  as  he  should  take  a  child  to  his  heart,  love 

her,  tenderly  care  for  her,  then,  in  the  dawn  of  her 

womanhood,  thrust  her  unprotected  upon  the  world." 

179 


DOROTHY 

Barnolde,  it  was  now  recalled  (he  had  not  yet  re- 
turned), had  been  universally  disliked.  His  prolonged 
stay  in  the  Sumner  home  in  the  face  of  Dorothy's  well- 
known  displeasure  (and  Cousin  Sarah's  as  well),  had 
contributed  to  that  dislike.  And  so  many,  as  they  said, 
"began  to  put  two  and  two  together,"  and,  as  one  indi- 
vidual, to  talk  "undue  influence."  But  a  country-side 
decision  and  a  legal  one  are  often  wide  apart;  indeed, 
such  have  been  known  never  to  coincide.  Would  the 
present  be  but  another  instance?  Those  who  had  the 
matter  closest  at  heart  could  not  tell.  And  these  were 
not  a  few,  as  it  transpired. 

Professor  Williamson  was  troubled  as  a  year  ago 
he  had  not  thought  it  possible  to  be  over  any  village 
happening.  Until  now  he  had  not  suspected  how  the 
heart-tendrils  of  both  himself  and  Mrs.  Williamson 
had  entwined  themselves  about  the  young  girl.  That 
there  had  been  fraud  on  the  part  of  the  man  who  had 
so  cunningly  ingratiated  himself  into  John  Sumner's 
favor,  he  did  not  doubt ;  but  how  should  he  set  about  to 
make  it  plain  to  the  world  ? 

In  his  distress,  he  bethought  him  of  an  old  college 
friend,  a  classmate  in  fact,  whose  home  was  in  the 
capital  city  of  this,  his  adopted  State,  and  who  was  now 
a  member  of  Congress,  and  known  as  one  of  the  fore- 
most lawyers  of  the  State.  His  office  was  still  main- 
tained in  the  capital,  its  business  being  managed  by  a 
partner.  As  Congress  was  not  in  session,  the  Professor 
felt  sure  of  the  personal  interest  of  this  friend. 

A  letter  was  at  once  dispatched,  that  aroused  not 
only  friendly  interest,  but  professional  instincts  as  well. 
1 80 


HOMELESS 

So  much  so  that,  after  further  correspondence,  the 
friend  decided  to  visit  Middletown. 

"Say  nothing  about  my  coming,"  he  wrote.  "Let 
those  we  oppose,  think  }:ou,  like  the  young  girl,  are  re- 
signed to  the  inevitable." 

A  few  days  later,  Professor  Williamson  and  Squire 
Hubbard  went  once  more  to  examine  the  will.  With 
them  was  a  very  unassuming  stranger.  Not  one  in  the 
village  through  whose  streets  he  walked  suspected  that 
he  bore  a  name  so  distinguished  that  in  the  entire  State 
there  was  not  a  cross-roads  but  knew  it  and  honored  it. 

Kenge  was  out,  but  the  office  boy  produced  the 
document,  and  they  took  ample  time  to  note  its  points. 
Later,  the  three,  in  the  privacy  of  the  "Beeches,"  talked 
the  matter  over  down  to  the  last  detail.  It  was  the 
friend,  whom  we  shall  know  simply  as  "Lawyer 
C ,"  who  summed  the  matter  up — 

"There  is  little  doubt  in  my  mind  that  the  will  is 
genuine — that  is,  genuine  in  the  sense  of  having  been 
attested  to  by  John  Sumner.  "There  is,"  the  lawyer 
continued,  meditatively,  "something  strange  about  a 
genuine  signature.  It  is  as  if  the  writer  unconsciously 
transcribed  something  of  his  own  personality.  That  in- 
tangible 'something'  is  present  to  a  large  degree  in  that 
cramped  one  we  have  been  considering.  The  old  man 
must  have  been  a  character  in  his  way.  I  should  like 
to  have  known  him ;  but" — and  the  alert  lawyer  took 
the  place  of  the  speculating  literary  critic — "there  is 
no  doubt  that  there  has  been  fraud  and  of  a  grave 
nature.  That  clause  of  the  will  making  the  legatee 
his  own  executor,  and  without  bond,  and  with  full 

181 


DOROTHY 

power  of  disposing  of  property,  is  so  unlikely  in  a  public 
trust,  that  it,  of  itself,  indicates  fraud.  You  will  see — 
and  mark  my  words — that  at  the  first  possible  moment 
he  will  begin  to  turn  the  estate  into  cash.  That  done, 
Middletown  will  scarcely  see  its  coveted  building. 
Further,  there  is  not  a  doubt  in  my  mind  that  the  will 
was  obtained,  as  you  believe,  through  persistent  over- 
shadowing, and  by  a  successful  appeal  to  a  strong  phi- 
lanthropical  bias  on  the  part  of  the  victim.  Now,  it 
must  be  your  immediate  part  to  gather  up  quietly,  but 
surely,  evidence  to  substantiate  this  belief  we  hold  in 
common.  As  for  the  codicil,  I  am  sure  that  it  is  an 
outright  forgery  as  I  am  that  the  signature  to  the  will 
is  genuine.  Again  you  must  secure  proof.  I  am  so 
confident  of  what  I  say,  that  I  now  advise  you  to  watch 
for  the  filing  of  the  will,  notice  of  which,  according  to 
the  law  of  the  State,  must  be  published.  Then  wait 
until  the  last  day  of  grace,  and  give  notice  that  you  will 
at  the  next  term  of  court  contest  the  will.  In  the 
meantime  say  nothing  of  your  plans.  Keep  every  scrap 
of  evidence  you  may  find  absolutely  secret.  Barnolde, 
I  have  no  doubt,  is  shrewd.  If  he  is  forewarned,  he 
will  be  forearmed.  Keep  him  until  the  last  minute 
ignorant  of  your  intentions,  and  until  the  last  of  your 
method  of  procedure." 

The  Professor  thought  earnestly.  This  meant  for 
him  a  great  responsibility.  Should  he  assume  it?  He 
could  not  without  the  best  of  counsel. 

"Can  I  count  on  your  assistance  until  the  end?" 
he  asked. 

.His  friend  was  silent.  A  vision  of  his  multiplied 
182 


HOMELESS 

interests  swept  over  him.  He  stood  in  silence  for  a 
time,  then  said  slowly: 

"Yes.  Write  me  freely;  keep  me  in  close  touch 
with  all  that  happens.  I  will  advise  you  from  time  to 
time  as  seems  necessary.  I  will  be  free  to  leave  Wash- 
ington in  March,  and  then  I  will  give  this  my  personal 
attention.  I  will  do  this  first  for  the  sake  of  justice, 
and  then,"  and  a  rare  smile  lightened  his  face,  "for  the 
sake  of  a  certain  widely  scattered  'class.'  Now  that 
we  are  through  with  business,  a  mutual  account  of  the 
years  is  in  order." 

With  this,  the  Squire  took  his  leave,  and  the  two 
talked  long  into  the  night.  In  the  morning,  one  re- 
turned to  his  duties,  and  the  Professor  returned  to  his 
own  difficult  task. 

Amid  all  these  plans,  what  of  Dorothy? 

After  the  first  passionate  outburst,  she  went  about 
strangely  calm.  Neighbors,  watching  her,  said  one  to 
another,  "She  has  not  begun  to  'sense'  what  has  hap- 
pened." 

The  truth  lay  beyond  their  ken.  She  was  young. 
Thus  far  the  world  had  mercifully  hid  from  her  its 
seamy  side,  and,  with  the  assurance  of  youth,  she  did 
not  believe  it  had  one. 

Perhaps  the  liberty-loving  Ryedale  blood  had  been 
awakened,  and  was  stirring  in  her  veins.  Be  that  as  it 
may,  she  was  conscious  of  a  strange  thrill  of  exultation 
in  that  her  future  now  lay  completely  in  her  own  hands. 
Her  grief  lay  in  the  supposed  alienation  of  her  father. 
It  humiliated  her  more  than  she  would  have  confessed, 
that  he  had  confided  a  heart-desire  to  a  stranger  rather 

•83 


DOROTHY 

where,  only  *e>  rt  »  far  away.  If  you  could  only  help 
me  in  due/  way  I  wovid  try  *•  hard  to  be  •mdbj  of 
the  confidence." 

At  dris  Aum  Vk>kt,  who  had  been  a  dose  listener, 
broke  in :  "You  do  n't  know,  dale,  what  yon  '«e  talking 
about.  Yo'  place  is  beah,  where  yo'  ole  Anode  wOl 
take  care  of  you." 

With  dm  Mr*.  Williamson  quite  agreed;  but  it 
occurred  to  the  Pmtrrnir  that  perhaps  Dorothy  was 
nearer  right,  and  that  it  might  be  better,  considering 
the  strain  and  humiliation  which  Bamolde  s  >y(ii|M 
would  by  upon  her,  if  she  should  leave  die  village  for 
a  time.  When  in  her  appeal  to  him  the  words  "far 
away"  had  fallen  from  her  lip*,  a  coincidence  flashed 

He  had  but  recently  received  a  letter  from  Mac- 
Byrne,  which  in  the  stress  of  events  had  remained  un- 
answered. This,  unlike  his  preceding  ones,  made  no 
mffftmt  of  his  "beloved  woodsmen."  It  was  brief, 
and  it»  sole  object  had  been  to  secure  the  help  of  the 
Pfofewor  in  obtaining  a  teacher  for  the  new  high  school 
which  die  rapidly  growing  milling  town  now  boasted, 
and  had  been  written  at  the  instance  of  a  Mr.  Stuart, 
"the  chief  owner  of  the  woods,"  the  writer  had  ex- 
plained, of  whose  sterling  qualities  be  took  time  to 


'How  fortunate  it  would  be  for  Dorothy,"  be  was 
in  the  change  he  now  perceived  inevitable, 
"if  she  might  have  the  protection  of  loyal-hearted 
William  MacByrne." 

1*6 


HOMELESS 

One  question  alone  arose,  and  that — such  was  the 
man's  honor — must  have  a  satisfactory  answer:  Was 
she  competent?  She  who  had  seemed  to  him  a  mere 
child?  In  a  moment  he  had  scanned  her  closely,  not- 
ing, not  for  the  first  time,  how  well  sorrow — vjiose 
mission  is  to  strengthen — had  done  its  work. 

"Yes,  he  would  risk  it,"  was  his  final  verdict. 

Dorothy  had  not  supposed  that  her  heart  would 
ever  again  be  so  light  as  it  was  that  same  night  when 
she  laid  her  head  upon  her  pillow.  The  entire  matter 
of  the  far-away  school  had  been  fully  considered,  A 
letter  was  already  on  its  way  to  Mac  Byrne  announcing 
her  immediate  departure.  At  last  she  was  to  have  that 
which  she  so  coveted,  a  niche  all  her  own  among  the 
world's  workers.  Although  she  was  to  lose  the  com- 
panionship of  the  "Beeches,"  she  felt  a  rare  sense  of 
security  in  the  near  presence  of  him  whom  she  yet  called 
the  "circuit  preacher." 

A  few  days  later  and  her  last  little  preparations 
for  the  long  journey  were  complete,  yet  she  still  lin- 
gered in  that  which  had  been  to  her  throughout  the 
years  home. 

At  the  sight  of  the  leavetaking,  even  the  heart  of 
the  despoiler  must  have  saddened. 

Aimlessly  she  went  from  room  to  room:  familiar 
pictures — mostly  of  Churchmen — looked  down  at  her 
from  the  walls.  Leather-bound  books,  each  a  pan  of 
herself  and  fraught  with  Sunday  afternoon  memories, 
lay  on  the  shelves.  Among  these,  itself  bound  in 
leather,  was  a  small  hymn-book.  At  the  sight  of  this 
187 


DOROTHY 

where,  only  so  it  is  far  away.  If  you  could  only  help 
me  in  that  way  I  would  try  so  hard  to  be  worthy  of 
the  confidence." 

At  this  Aunt  Violet,  who  had  been  a  close  listener, 
broke  in :  "You  do  n't  know,  chile,  what  you  'se  talking 
about.  Yo'  place  is  heah,  where  yo'  ole  Auntie  will 
take  care  of  you." 

With  this  Mrs.  Williamson  quite  agreed;  but  it 
occurred  to  the  Professor  that  perhaps  Dorothy  was 
nearer  right,  and  that  it  might  be  better,  considering 
the  strain  and  humiliation  which  Barnolde's  return 
would  lay  upon  her,  if  she  should  leave  the  village  for 
a  time.  When  in  her  appeal  to  him  the  words  "far 
away"  had  fallen  from  her  lips,  a  coincidence  flashed 
upon  him  which  staggered  him  with  its  significance. 

He  had  but  recently  received  a  letter  from  Mac- 
Byrne,  which  in  the  stress  of  events  had  remained  un- 
answered. This,  unlike  his  preceding  ones,  made  no 
mention  of  his  "beloved  woodsmen."  It  was  brief, 
and  its  sole  object  had  been  to  secure  the  help  of  the 
Professor  in  obtaining  a  teacher  for  the  new  high  school 
which  the  rapidly  growing  milling  town  now  boasted, 
and  had  been  written  at  the  instance  of  a  Mr.  Stuart, 
"the  chief  owner  of  the  woods,"  the  writer  had  ex- 
plained, of  whose  sterling  qualities  he  took  time  to 
speak. 

"How  fortunate  it  would  be  for  Dorothy,"  he  was 
thinking,  in  the  change  he  now  perceived  inevitable, 
"if  she  might  have  the  protection  of  loyal-hearted 
William  MacByrne." 

1 86 


HOMELESS 

One  question  alone  arose,  and  that — such  was  the 
man's  honor — must  have  a  satisfactory  answer:  Was 
she  competent?  She  who  had  seemed  to  him  a  mere 
child?  In  a  moment  he  had  scanned  her  closely,  not- 
ing, not  for  the  first  time,  how  well  sorrow — vdiose 
mission  is  to  strengthen — had  done  its  work. 

"Yes,  he  would  risk  it,"  was  his  final  verdict. 

Dorothy  had  not  supposed  that  her  heart  would 
ever  again  be  so  light  as  it  was  that  same  night  when 
she  laid  her  head  upon  her  pillow.  The  entire  matter 
of  the  far-away  school  had  been  fully  considered.  A 
letter  was  already  on  its  way  to  MacByrne  announcing 
her  immediate  departure.  At  last  she  was  to  have  that 
which  she  so  coveted,  a  niche  all  her  own  among  the 
world's  workers.  Although  she  was  to  lose  the  com- 
panionship of  the  "Beeches,"  she  felt  a  rare  sense  of 
security  in  the  near  presence  of  him  whom  she  yet  called 
the  "circuit  preacher." 

A  few  days  later  and  her  last  little  preparations 
for  the  long  journey  were  complete,  yet  she  still  lin- 
gered in  that  which  had  been  to  her  throughout  the 
years  home. 

At  the  sight  of  the  leavetaking,  even  the  heart  of 
the  despoiler  must  have  saddened. 

Aimlessly  she  went  from  room  to  room;  familiar 
pictures — mostly  of  Churchmen — looked  down  at  her 
from  the  walls.  Leather-bound  books,  each  a  part  of 
herself  and  fraught  with  Sunday  afternoon  memories, 
lay  on  the  shelves.  Among  these,  itself  bound  in 
leather,  was  a  small  hymn-book.  At  the  sight  of  this 

187 


DOROTHY 

her  heart,  already  very  tender,  overflowed.  She  took 
it  in  her  hands,  and,  as  she  turned  the  pages,  each  was 
suggestive  of  the  voice  she  was  not  to  hear  again. 

"The  orphans,"  she  said  to  herself,  grimly,  "will 
be  none  the  poorer;  this  shall  be  mine  for  a  keepsake." 

She  lingered  longest  in  the  sunny  great  kitchen. 
The  evening  sun  shone  through  the  western  windows, 
but  it  warmed  only  a  bare  four  walls.  It  was  as  if  the 
home  had  known  a  soul,  and  that  were  fled. 

Outside,  Cousin  Sarah  was  giving  final  directions 
to  the  driver  who  had  been  engaged  to  carry  her  own 
belongings  to  her  own  home,  meanwhile  wiping  away 
the  steadily  flowing  tears.  The  heart  of  this  good 
woman  was  very  sore,  in  that  Dorothy  was  not  to  ac- 
company her.  She  could  not  understand  a  feeling  that 
would  compel  a  young  girl  to  forego  comfort  and  pro- 
tection when  it  was  so  gladly  offered.  But  the  Pro- 
fessor, standing  by,  understood  and  approved,  and  that 
lightened  Dorothy's  self- reproach,"  for  her  heart  seemed 
well-nigh  breaking  in  that,  besides  the  parting,  she  must 
yet  give  pain. 

There  was  yet  another  leavetaking,  and  this  took 
place  in  a  spot  quite  apart  from  the  living.  To  reach 
it  Dorothy  threaded  her  way  slowly  among  sunken 
graves.  She  paused  at  last,  and  read  afresh  an  inscrip- 
tion, which  she  had  often  read,  on  a  plain,  much-dis- 
colored marble  slab: 


"Mary,  aged  twenty-three, 
Wife  of  John  Ryedale." 


188 


HOMELESS 

That  was  all.  Perhaps  the  artist  in  marble  had 
himself  thought  it  little;  for  above  the  words  he  had 
chipped  out  an  open  Bible,  and  above  that  a  pair  of 
folded  marble  hands.  (Many  times  in  the  years  the 
child's  hands  had  strayed  over  these.) 

Beneath  this  there  had  been  carved  another  line, 
and  Dorothy  knew  this,  in  itself,  reflected  the  kindness 
of  the  man  whom,  through  all  the  years,  she  had  called 
father.  The  added  words  were : 

"John  Ryedale.     Shot  dead  at  Shiloh. 
He  was  a  brave  man." 

A  pitifully  small  family  history.  As  she  stood  lean- 
ing against  the  stone  her  old  struggle  with  memory 
came  on  afresh;  once  more  she  sought  to  recall  the 
appearance  of  those  whose  names  she  read,  but  the  effort 
was  in  vain.  Only  a  big,  tall  man,  a  laughing,  happy 
little  child,  and  a  sweet-faced  woman  came  out  of  the 
mists  to  greet  her. 

Kneeling  there  on  the  mold,  she  recalled  that,  in  her 
"keepsake  box,"  along  with  the  daguerreotypes  of  her 
father  and  mother,  were  old  letters  from  her  mother's 
home.  She  wondered  now  why,  through  the  j^ears, 
she  had  felt  so  little  interest  in  her  far-away  relatives, 
and  then  the  answer  came  to  her,  "She  had  been  so 
happy,  so  free  from  care." 

Was  it  now  too  late  ? 

At  length  she  arose  to  go.  As  she  did  so  her  hands 
crept  out  as  if  they  would  fain  caress  the  unyielding 
stone.  As  they  lingered  on  the  chiseled  Bible,  she 
vowed  to  herself  to  be  as  brave,  as  true,  in  the  new  life 

*        189 


DOROTHY 

to  which  she  was  going  as  they  said  her  father  had  been 
on  the  battle-field;  and  at  the  thought,  again  the  ever- 
haunting  sweet  face  seemed  to  become  a  floating,  shad- 
owy figure,  and  to  envelope  her  in  its  brooding  tender- 
ness, and  the  feeling  came  to  her  that  in  her  present 
trials  she  was  not  alone. 

She  had  given  herself  yet  another  errand.  In  an- 
other part  of  this  same  "God's  acre,"  beside  the  earlier 
one  of  the  wife  he  had  so  sincerely  mourned,  was  the 
new-made  grave  of  John  Sumner. 

To  these  Dorothy  in  silence  took  her  steps.  Reach- 
ing them,  she  stood  in  silence ;  then  bent,  and  scattered 
over  each  flowers  she  had  herself  gathered  from  the 
dear  home  garden.  Had  there  been  any  hurt,  any  re- 
sentment remaining,  it  must  have  vanished  with  the  act. 
She  knelt  by  these,  as  she  had  knelt  by  those  of  her  own 
parents,  and  as  she  did  so  she  said  to  herself  as  if  in 
farewell,  "Some  day,  dear  father,  we  shall  meet  and 
talk  it  all  over." 

From  this  it  would  seem  that  he  of  "the  gray  hair," 
sleeping  so  peacefully  beneath,  had  not  taught  his  les- 
sons of  faith  and  trust  in  vain. 

It  was  now  growing  late,  and  as  she  turned  to  go 
she  was  too  engrossed  to  observe  the  approach  of  a 
quick  and  hurried  step.  In  another  moment,  with  a 
turn  in  the  winding  path,  she  stood  face  to  face  with 
Robert  Stirling — Robert,  who,  through  all  these  weeks 
of  changing  fortunes,  had  watched  each  day's  develop- 
ments with  the  keenest  anxiety;  chafing  under  the  re- 
straints he  felt  himself  placed ;  asking  himself  over  and 
over,  "why  that  poltroon  of  a  lover  had  not  appeared 
190 


HOMELESS 

to  do  something" — exactly  what  he  did  not  know,  but 
something,  anything  to  relieve  the  situation  and  com- 
fort Dorothy. 

His  restlessness  had  been  such  that  "Shaggy"  was 
already  quite  resigned  to  the  daily  "town  trip,"  and 
was,  at  the  moment  of  the  chance  meeting,  trying  to 
appropriate  certain  stray  wisps  of  hay  in  Long  David's 
tumble-down  shed,  while  his  master  took  the  shorter 
cut  to  the  village. 

For  a  couple  of  heart-beats  the  two  stood  facing 
each  other,  and  then — O  strange  mystery  of  sympathy ! 
— an  overwhelming  sense  of  her  desolation,  such  as  she 
had  not  known  until  the  moment,  swept  over  Dorothy. 
And,  strange  to  say,  a  certain  once  despised  line,  which 
in  another  sorrow  had  said,  "I  am  sorry,"  rose  before 
her  and  demanded  remembrance. 

Surely  the  writer  of  that  line,  who  had  appeared  so 
unexpectedly,  had  come  to  utter  the  sympathy  he  had 
once  written. 

Ah !  she  had  not  known  she  was  so  hungry  for  com- 
fort. Instinctively  she  gave  a  glad  cry,  and  reaching 
out  her  hands  she  took  a  step  forward. 

Alas!  poor  tempted  Robert!  With  the  glad  cry, 
with  the  outstretched  hands,  his  heart  well-nigh  stopped 
beating.  For  an  instant  it  seemed  he  must  take  the 
sorrowing  girl  in  his  arms,  must  whisper  to  her  over 
and  over  that  all  that  had  happened  did  not  matter 
since  he  was  strong  and  could  protect  her,  and  a  hun- 
dred other  things,  such  as  men  have  been  telling  women 
from  the  beginning  of  the  world ;  but  at  this  moment, 
when  soul  was  looking  into  soul,  when  hearts  were 


DOROTHY 

about  giving  up  secrets,  a  careless,  nonchalant,  self- 
satisfied  face  intruded  itself  upon  Robert,  a  face  with 
eyes  that  looked  proudly  into  his,  and  reminded  him  of 
that  which  he  had  been  about  to  forget. 

He  drew  back,  a  chill  settled  at  his  heart,  and 
seemed  to  freeze  his  tongue ;  so  much  so  that,  instead  of 
the  wild,  burning  words  he  had  thought  to  say,  he 
heard  himself,  as  in  a  dream,  uttering  the  merest  com- 
monplaces of  sympathy,  which  sounded  even  more  hol- 
low than  they  were. 

Dorothy  was  quick  to  catch  the  change.  Robert 
was  not  more  proud  than  she,  so  there  was  an  immedi- 
ate marshaling  of  pride  and  self-control. 

"Thanks;"  it  was  a  quiet  constrained  voice  that 
spoke.  "My  friends  are  all  kind;  indeed,  they  over- 
whelm me  with  a  sympathy  that  is  quite  misplaced.  I 
know  I  shall  love  my  work,  while,  as  for  leaving  Mid- 
dletown,  who  of  us  does  not  like  a  change?" 

"By  the  way,"  she  continued — for  Robert  was 
speechless — "what  message  shall  I  take  your  friend, 
Mr.  MacByrne?  Shall  I  tell  him  you  are  still  de- 
voted to  his  majesty,  Sir  Bones?"  She  was  laughing 
now,  her  old  enchanting  self. 

And  so  they  parted. 

And  so  must  we  for  a  time.  For  in  that  new  life 
to  which  the  young  girl  is  going  she  must  have  time 
(as  must  we  all  in  our  life's  battle)  to  indicate  of  what 
material  she  is  made,  whether  of  that  pure  gold  which 
comes  out  of  the  furnace  purified,  or  of  that  baser  alloy 
that  melts  before  the  first  hot  blast. 
192 


HOMELESS 

The  journey  to  that  spot  where  "brook  and  river 
meet,"  whether  it  be  figure  of  speech  or  actual  reality, 
is  always  long.  - 

But  that  point  of  time,  when  the  brook  at  last 
pours  its  small  offering  of  waters  into  the  deep,  dark, 
swift-flowing  river  is  inexorable  in  its  approach.  Those 
who  have  listened  to  its  sweet  song  of  content,  as  it 
curled  about  the  roots  of  the  forest-trees,  or  dallied 
with  the  soft  caresses  of  the  mosses  on  its  banks,  may 
well  ask  if  the  gentle  ministry  of  these  which  it  so  loved 
is  in  its  larger  life  to  be  forever  lost? 

Happily,  no.  The  attuned  ear  catches  alway  a 
sweet  under-note  in  the  river's  deep  roar,  and  the  sym- 
pathetic eye  a  gentleness  in  its  waves  as  they  lap  the 
shore,  that  hint — and  will  for  evermore — of  mossy 
banks  and  of  overhanging  boughs. 

So  must  a  life,  if  it  be  true,  reproduce  in  its  riper, 
richer  fruitage,  the  hopes,  the  dreams,  the  inspirations, 
the  ambitions  of  its  childhood.  Were  it  not  so,  they 
who  guide  the  young  must  at  times  faint  beneath  their 
burden  of  anxiety. 


13  193 


CHAPTER  XXII. 
DAVID 

ONE  is  not  necessarily  pessimistic,  if,  when  ap- 
proaching the  zenith  of  life,  the  unwelcome  truth 
finds  lodgment  in  the  "inner  consciousness"  that  a 
single  individual  is  ordinarily  of  small  importance. 

This  truth  is  frequently  enforced  by  striking  illus- 
trations. If  a  ruler,  greatly  honored  throughout  the 
world  for  his  strength  of  character  as  well  as  broad 
statesmanship,  is  suddenly  summoned  by  the  "stealthy 
figure  in  gray,"  before  an  hour  has  passed,  as  if  in 
mockery  of  human  greatness,  a  new  ruler  has  been 
solemnly  sworn  to  be  to  the  nation  all  that  the  dead 
man  was,  and  the  national  life  knows  no  break. 

It  is  so  with  those  high  in  ecclesiastical  councils. 
At  a  beck  from  the  same  grim  figure  they  falter,  then 
fall;  their  little  world  which  they  have  touched  pauses 
to  deliver  certain  eulogies,  then  goes  on,  not  infre- 
quently to  new  successes;  for,  as  a  rule,  younger, 
stronger,  and  better-trained  hands  take  up  the  work, 
often  grudgingly  yielded. 

Sad?  By  no  means.  Such  happenings  are  but  ob- 
ject lessons,  teaching  us  that  the  Father's  plans  are 
eternal,  and  do  not  depend  on  any  thing  so  frail  as  the 
life  of  an  individual. 

194 


DAVID 

Had  Dorothy  been  at  all  vain,  and  had  she  been  able 
to  look  through  the  space  that  soon  separated  her  from 
her  childhood's  home,  that  vanity  must  have  suffered  a 
shock  in  beholding  how  readily  her  little  world  ad- 
justed itself  to  her  absence.  True,  a  large  part  of  it 
had  paused  to  bid  her  "Godspeed ;"  then,  as  if  to  make 
up  for  lost  time,  had  girded  itself  afresh  for  the  "fray," 
which,  properly  translated,  meant  the  hurried  building 
of  new  houses,  the  establishment  of  new  business  enter- 
prises, and — of  supreme  interest  to  all — the  completion 
of  the  new  court-house. 

Curiously  enough,  among  the  first  items  of  business 
transacted  in  the  completed  building,  or  rather  in  one 
of  its  office  rooms,  was  the  filing  with  the  proper  officer 
of  the  "Sumner  Will."  At  this  a  few  old  friends  shook 
their  heads  and  muttered,  "Too  bad ;"  but  none  thought 
it  their  province  to  interfere,  and  still  fewer  found  it 
in  their  hearts  to  look  coldly  upon  the  Reverend  Mr. 
Barnolde  when  he  suddenly  returned,  and  with  an  air 
of  great  celerity  began  to  exhibit  plans  for  the  proposed 
building,  and  incidentally  to  arrange  for  the  sale  of 
the  Sumner  properties. 

Yet  there  was  one,  as  the  reader  knows,  who  did 
not  forget.  There  is  a  saying,  so  common  as  to  savor 
of  folk-lore,  that  "the  devil  is  a  deceiver,"  and  further 
that,  "if  a  bit  of  work  emanates  from  his  workshop,  a 
'loophole'  will  in  time  be  found  through  which  the 
truth  will  finally  filter." 

Perhaps  Mr.  Barnolde  would  not  have  been  so 
complacent  in  mind  had  he  known  that  Professor  Wil- 
liamson— who,  to  all  appearances,  was  altogether  recon- 

195 


DOROTHY 

died  to  the  turn  of  events — was  constantly  on  the 
watch  for  this  traditional  "opening,"  and  that  even 
before  his  return  a  discovery  had  been  made  that  might 
prove  his  undoing. 

Strangely  enough,  with  the  finding  of  this  first  faint 
clew — if  clew  it  should  prove — the  Professor  had  him- 
self little  to  do.  That  discovery — which  we  must  now 
note — had  taken  place  on  the  day  of  Cousin  Sarah's 
departure  from  the  Sumner  home;  a  day  on  which 
Professor  Williamson  learned,  not  without  surprise, 
that  there  was  one  who  had  the  matter  at  heart  equally 
with  himself. 

Long  David  had  been  stirred  by  the  incident  of  the 
will,  as  possibly  he  had  not  been  since  that  long  ago 
day  when  he  had  marched,  with  a  prouder  step  than  he 
had  since  known,  away  from  this  same  village  to  that 
far-away  and  intangible  "front."  He  had  been  a  mem- 
ber of  that  same  company  that  had  known  John  Rye- 
dale  as  color-bearer.  He  had,  in  fact,  been  near  him 
when  he  fell,  and  since  that  hour  had  felt  a  strong  sense 
of  proprietorship  in  his  comrade's  child. 

He  literally  scouted  the  idea  that  John  Sumner  had 
meant  to  impoverish  her  whom  he  had  taken  to  his 
heart.  In  the  first  days  of  the  denouement  he  had 
stood,  or  gone  about,  in  a  sort  of  bewilderment.  Re- 
covering, he  began  to  buttonhole  passers-by,  and  to 
demonstrate  to  each  that  the  whole  thing,  from  begin- 
ning to  end,  was  a  "fraud,"  and  could  not  be  anything 
else.  But  from  these  he  at  length  turned  with  a  sigh. 

Middletown,  he  was  forced  to  acknowledge,  was 
very  busy  with  its  own  growing  importance.  Besides, 
196 


DAVID 

half  the  town,  as  he  found  to  his  disgust,  was  in  love 
with  the  elegant  new  structure  the  bequest  had  made 
possible. 

But  he  had  leisure  to  consider  the  matter  down  to 
the  last  detail.  The  Sumner  home  now  began  to  have 
an  unusual  fascination  for  him.  He  invented  lame  ex- 
cuses for  visits  to  different  parts  of  the  house.  He 
catechised  Cousin  Sarah  concerning  the  habits  of  her 
erstwhile  guest,  wearing,  meanwhile,  such  an  air  of 
inscrutable  mystery  as  might  have  put  the  Sphynx  to 
shame. 

Instinctively  he  guessed  the  attitude  of  the  Pro- 
fessor, and  at  last  resolved  to  lay  before  that  gentle- 
man his  own  hopes,  his  own  fears.  So  a  certain  evening 
found  him  knocking  at  the  door  of  the  "Beeches." 

The  Professor  received  him  kindly,  but,  knowing 
his  penchant  for  "news,"  did  not  feel  free  to  confide 
to  him  his  own  efforts.  The  conversation  lasted  more 
than  an  hour.  At  its  close,  David,  with  an  air  of 
finality,  drew  himself  up  to  his  great  height,  and  said: 
"I  tell  you  there's  been  villainy,  rank  villainy;  and  I 
am  sure" — lowering  his  voice  and  looking  furtively 
about — "the  old  'Varmint'  has  left  his  'tracks' — if — if 
we  only  knew  where  to  find  them."  With  this  he  gave 
the  Professor  a  look  of  pathetic  appeal  as  if  to  say  that 
he,  with  his  superior  wisdom,  ought  to  be  able  to  fur- 
nish the  information. 

Should  he  tell  him  all  ?  the  Professor  asked  himself. 

No;  he  did  not  dare.     So,  with  an  evasion  of  which  he 

was  ashamed,  he  replied :  "The  trouble  is,  that  such  as 

he  seem  very  successful  in  covering  up  their  misdeeds; 

197 


DOROTHY 

yet  if,  as  you  say,  he  has  left  'tracks,'  they  are  certainly 
about  the  Sumner  home.  Cousin  Sarah  leaves  to- 
morrow. Perhaps  you  might  drop  in  and  help  that 
good  woman  with  her  moving.  That  would  give  you 
a  fine  chance  to  investigate." 

David  took  his  leave  with  a  heavy  heart.  He  re- 
alized that  he  had  received  scant  encouragement. 
Nevertheless  on  the  morrow  he  threw  himself  with  a 
fine  zeal  into  the  task  of  helping,  as  had  been  suggested. 
But  the  day  waned,  and  although  (as  he  never  failed 
afterward  to  remark,  when  he  told  the  story)  he  kept 
his  "weather  eye  open,"  no  "find"  appeared.  A  droop- 
ing note  now  began  to  pervade  his  cheery  whistle. 
"What  if,  after  all,  he  had  hugged  to  his  heart  a  mere 
delusion  ?" 

But  a  single  article  remained,  that  being  a  cedar 
chest  filled  to  the  brim  with  Cousin  Sarah's  bed  fur- 
nishings, including  her  Rose  of  Sharon,  her  Peony,  and 
her  log  cabin  quilts,  each  rich  in  county-fair  honors, 
to  say  nothing  of  the  odors  of  rose-leaves  and  lavender: 

The  chest,  being  large  and  unwieldy,  had  been  as- 
signed to  the  storage-room  of  the  house.  In  these  last 
hurried  days  its  broad  surface  had  furnished  a  favorite 
receptacle  for  articles  that  were  changing  places.  At 
present  an  old  pile  of  ledgers,  representing  the  business 
of  the  "Store"  for  years  past,  had  found  temporary 
lodgment  upon  it. 

These  must  be  moved  in  order  that  Cousin  Sarah 

might  have  her  own.     David  gathered  them  up  one 

by  one  in  his  long  arms ;  then  turned,  thinking  to  place 

them  upon  a  bureau  that  stood  close  at  hand.     As  he. 

198 


DAVID 

did  so,  a  part  of  his  load  fell  to  the  floor.  Stooping 
to  regain  these,  he  observed  that  a  letter  had  fallen, 
evidently  from  between  the  leaves  of  one.  Picking  it 
up,  he  was  surprised  to  notice  that  it  was  addressed  to 
William  MacByrne,  and  in  Uncle  John's  unmistakable 
writing,  and,  strange  fact,  had  not  been  mailed! 

David's  face  brightened.  He  was  about  to  give  a 
prolonged  whistle,  but  caught  himself,  and  looked 
guiltily  around.  Yes;  he  was  alone!  Should  he  open 
and  read?  It  came  to  him  that  if  this  were  what  he 
sought,  he  should  want  privacy  for  the  reading,  and  it 
would  be  well  if  the  Professor  were  present,  so  he  but- 
toned the  precious  "find"  within  his  coat,  and  proceeded 
about  his  work. 

That  same  evening,  in  a  retired  room  at  the 
"Beeches,"  a  strangely  assorted  pair  sat  in  silence  over 
a  letter  which  had  just  undergone  a  close  scrutiny. 

The  result  had  been  disappointing.  It  had  been 
found  to  bear  a  date  of  a  few  weeks  after  Mr.  Bar- 
nolde's  arrival  at  the  Sumner  home,  and  was  in  reply 
to  one  from  MacByrne,  who  had  evidently  written  con- 
cerning his  "woodsmen's  needs;"  for  there  was  a  sen- 
tence or  two  which  mentioned  an  inclosure  to  be  used 
as  thought  best.  Save  for  a  word  or  two  concerning 
the  comfort  and  satisfaction  the  writer  derived  from 
the  companionship  of  Dorothy  (which  might  be  used 
as  showing  the  friendly  relationship  between  the  two), 
the  letter  was  valueless ;  for  the  writer  had  then  lapsed 
into  a  plaint  concerning  his  unhappiness  at  the  death  of 
his  wife. 

As  David  sat,  bowed  over  in  his  chair,  his  arm  on 
199 


DOROTHY 

the  table,  toying  with  the  letter,  his  was  indeed  a  pic- 
ture of  dejection. 

Suddenly  he  sat  bolt  upright,  then  grasped  the  let- 
ter in  both  hands,  and,  unmindful  of  the  Professor's 
presence,  of  whom  ordinarily  he  stood  in  wholesome 
awe,  he  sprang  to  the  light,  turned  it  on  to  its  fullest 
extent,  then  crouched  down  over  the  paper,  and  ex- 
amined it  anxiously.  His  companion  at  once  scented 
the  unusual,  and,  coming  to  his  side,  demanded  to  know 
the  occasion  of  it  all. 

As  soon  as  David  could  find  his  voice,  he  explained 
that,  with  a  chance  shift  of  his  position  and  a  conse- 
quent different  angle  of  light,  it  had  seemed  to  him  that 
under  certain  of  the  words  he  had  detected  the  faintest 
of  pencil  marks,  but  that  the  marks  had  seemed  to  dis- 
appear. 

"You  look,"  said  David,  his  voice  trembling  with  a 
feeling  he  could  not  control. 

A  microscope  was  close  at  hand.  The  Professor 
seized  it,  and  soon,  under  its  strong  magnifying  qual- 
ities, a  strange  fact  stood  revealed.  It  was  indeed 
true  many  of  the  words  were  underscored,  lightly  of 
course,  but  surely  underscored! 

By  whom,  and  for  what  purpose?  David  thought 
he  knew.  "Don't  you  see?"  he  went  on  to  explain, 
"before  Barnolde  could  write  that  disgraceful  codicil, 
he  had  to  have  a  sample  of  poor  Uncle  John's  writing, 
and  here,  in  this  letter,  he  found  it  quite  to  his  hand, 
and  a  nice  little  sum  of  money  besides." 

The  Professor  smiled.  "It  is  always  easy  to  be- 
lieve that  which  suits  our  purpose.  Still  I  believe  you 
200 


DAVID 

have  stumbled  on  something  of  value;  but  Barnolde 
will  not  yield  without  a  stubborn  fight,  and  if  this 
matter  were  in  the  courts,  where  it  is  bound  to  come, 
we  should  need  more  than  a  few  underscored  words 
to  convict  him  of  forgery." 

"Why  are  you  going  so  soon?"  the  Professor  asked 
in  surprise;  for  David  had  already  grasped  his  some- 
what battered  hat,  and  was  making  as  if  he  were  about 
to  go. 

"I  kinder  thought  I  'd  saunter  around  towards  the 
Sumner  house  and  see  what  kind  of  a  story  them  old 
ledgers  has  got  to  tell." 

"But  the  house  is  closed,"  protested  the  Professor. 

"Yes  mebbe,  but  the  'Store'  ain't  likely  to  be.  I  '11 
just  drop  in  there  and  accidentally  remark  that  I  forgot 
to  tend  to  something  I  done  bespoke  Cousin  Sarah  I  'd 
look  after.  Let  me  see;"  and  his  look  was  the  least 
bit  quizzical ;  "what  was  it  now  I  promised  her?  Well, 
never  mind.  I  '11  remember  it,  shore,  by  the  time  I 
get  there."  Whereupon  he  favored  the  Professor  with 
such  an  extraordinary  wink  that  the  two  might  have 
been  regarded  as  boon  conspirators  in  some  matter  of 
state  importance. 

The  Professor  stood  for  a  moment  lost  in  thought, 
then  he  answered  gravely:  "Come  to  think  of  it,  those 
letters  I  was  busy  on  when  you  came  in  should  go  into 
the  post  to-night.  I  will  accompany  you." 

A  look  of  surprise  passed  over  David's  face,  then 
changed  into  satisfaction.  The  Professor  had  com- 
mitted himself! 

The  "Store"  was  soon  reached,  and  each  entered, 
201 


DOROTHY 

Intent  on  their  respective  errands.  Professor  William- 
son's took  but  a  moment,  and  with  its  accomplishment  t 
he  turned  as  if  homeward  bound.  But  as  David,  a  few 
moments  later  in  the  friendly  shadow  of  the  porch, 
turned  the  key  in  the  door  of  the  ertswhile  friendly 
kitchen,  he  was  not  surprised  to  hear  a  familiar  voice 
whisper  in  his  ear,  "David,  what  if  we  two  are  mere 
housebreakers  ?" 

"Wall,  mebbe;  but  better  that  than  heart-breakers." 

His  companion  did  not  think  it  worth  while  to 
argue  this  question  in  comparative  morals,  so  in  silence 
the  two  passed  into  the  familar  rooms,  up  the  winding, 
old-fashioned  stairway,  and  finally  into  the  storage 
room  with  its  anxiously  sought  pile  of  ledgers. 

They  went  in  perfect  security,  for  David  had  ad- 
vertised his  errand  well. 

"He  had  plum'  forgot,"  he  had  said,  "to  take  keer 
of  a  barrel  of  carpet-rags  he  had  promised  Cousin  Sarah 
to  take  on  the  morrow  to  the  weaver.  They  was  back 
in  the  attic,  and  unless  they  was  tended  to,  the  rats 
would  have  a  mighty  soft  nest." 

David  remembered  that  the  letter  that  had  caused 
the  present  search  had  fallen  from  one  of  the  newer 
ledgers,  so  he  turned  to  these  with  an  anxiety  he  did 
not  attempt  to  conceal. 

"This  is  the  one,  I  am  sure,"  said  he,  singling  out 
one.  In  silence  the  two  men  turned  its  leaves,  but  not 
a  single  scrap  of  paper  rewarded  their  search. 

"I  fear  we  have  had  little  foundation  for  our 
hopes,"  Professor  Williamson  said,  a  bit  cruelly,  it 
seemed  to  David. 

202 


DAVID 

"I  tell  you  there  is  proofs  of  that  man's  wrong 
doings  somewhere,  I  feel  it  here!"  said  David,  laying 
his  hand  upon  his  heart.  And  the  Professor,  looking, 
saw  with  surprise  that  the  man's  eyes  were  full  of  tears. 

"You  see,"  he  continued,  as  if  in  apology  for  his 
weakness,  "I  knowed  her  father,  and — and — someway 
I  have  taken  more  stock  in  what  honest  old  MacByrne 
used  to  call  'Providence'  ever  since  I  've  seen  the  way 
that  little  child  has  been  watched  over  and  keered  for 
through  all  these  years.  Now,  do  you  suppose  that  that 
same  Providence  has  got  tired  of  His  job,  and  is  going 
to  let  things  run  at  loose  ends  this  way?  No,  sir!  this 
thing  is  sure  going  to  be  straightened  out.  There  's 
proofs  somewhere,  and  I  'm  going  to  help  Providence 
find  them." 

So  saying  he  seized  the  innocent  ledger,  and  as 
though  it  had  been  Barnolde  himself,  he  shook  it 
viciously,  and,  as  if  to  reward  his  faith,  a  single  sheet 
of  paper  fluttered  out  and  on  to  the  floor. 

Both  men  stooped  to  regain  it.  At  first  they  saw 
only  a  sheet  of  foolscap  with  random  words  sprawled 
over  its  surface.  These  words  might  or  might  not  have 
been  in  Uncle  John's  writing.  But  David  would  know 
no  discouragement,  so  once  more  he  crouched  down  by 
the  light,  and,  putting  the  letter  and  sheet  of  paper 
together,  began  the  study  of  what  he  believed  to  be  an 
enigma  of  some  sort,  and  that  in  some  way  the  one  was 
a  key  to  the  other. 

Presently  he  began  to  give  out  a  yell  that,  had  not 
the   Professor   stopped   it   with   his   hand,   must   have 
brought  all  Middletown  running. 
203 


DOROTHY 

"David,  whatever  you  have  found,  and  may  think, 
make  no  outcry.  No  one  must  know,  at  least  not  for 
the  present." 

"Think !  Humph !  there 's  no  'think'  about  it. 
Here  it  is  just  as  plain  as  day.  Here  is  the  'devil's 
loophole,'  just  what  we  Ve  been  looking  for.  Seeing  is 
believing;  look!" 

The  Professor  looked,  and  saw  what  David  was 
excitedly  pointing  out.  The  underscored  words  in  the 
letter  and  the  random  ones  on  the  sheet  of  foolscap 
were  identical! 

"I  believe  you  are  right,  and  this  is  important.  Let 
us  at  once  go  ba»k  to  the  'Beeches'  and  talk  the  matter 
over."  Such  was  the  Professor's  encouraging  response. 

We  are  interested  only  in  the  outcome  of  that  con- 
versation which  lasted  well  into  the  night,  and  in  which 
David  learned  of  the  Professor's  own  efforts,  of  the 
counsel  employed.  At  the  name  David's  eyes  opened 
in  surprise.  To  think  one  so  distinguished  had  been 
in  Middletown  and  he  had  not  known ! 

"It  is  the  counsel's  explicit  instructions,"  the  Pro- 
fessor explained,  "that  all  evidence  obtained,  everything 
in  fact,  be  kept  absolutely  to  ourselves.  So,  David, 
you  must  say  nothing  about  this  to  any  one.  I  will 

immediately  confer  with  Lawyer  C .  He  will,  I 

am  sure,  place  this  writing  in  the  hands  of  an  expert. 
At  least  he  will  know  better  than  either  of  us  what 
course  to  pursue.  Dorothy  is  already  on  her  journey 
north;  even  she  must  not  be  disturbed."  (David  was 
already  planning  a  long  letter.) 

To  all  these  strange  instruction:  David  gave  his 
204 


DAVID 

consent;  but  it  was  hard,  the  following  morning,  to  go 
about  as  if  nothing  had  happened ;  harder  still  to  greet 
Barnolde,  when  he  shortly  returned,  with  a  show  of 
friendship ;  but  hard,  above  all,  to  hold  his  peace  when 
the  Sumner  properties  began  to  be  widely  advertised 
for  sale,  and  sales  announced  as  consummated,  save  for 
the  formality  of  the  necessary  papers. 

At  this  last  David  again  sought  the  Professor. 
"Do  not  worry,"  said  the  latter;  "the  gentleman  must 
be  given  an  opportunity  to  make  plain  to  a  possible 
jury  his  intentions." 

"I  see,"  said  David.  "You  'low  if  you  give  him 
rope  enough  he'll  hang  himself.  Is  th^t  it?" 

"Something  like  that,  I  suppose,"  was  the  reply. 
"But  to  comfort  you  I  will  tell  you  that  to-morrow 
I  expect  to  file  my  intention  of  contesting  the  will; 
that  will  stop  the  sale  of  property  till  the  matter  is  set- 
tled by  the  court." 


205 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 
"VENGEANCE  IS  MINE" 

THE  weeks  following  Dorothy's  going  were  weeks 
of  torture  to  Robert  Stirling.  That,  at  the  moment  of 
the  chance  meeting,  there  had  been  an  appeal  in  her 
eyes  he  could  not  doubt  nor  put  aside.  But  why,  since 
her  heart  was  another's,  should  she  appeal  to  him? 
Had  he  been  mistaken?  Ah!  what  happiness  if  this 
were  true!  But — and  he  put  the  new-born  hope  aside 
— that  could  not  be.  Had  he  not  seen?  Did  he  not 
know? 

He  was  often  at  the  Williamsons'  now,  and,  though 
eye  and  ear  were  ever  alert,  he  caught  no  hint  or  word 
that  would  help  solve  the  troublesome  question  he  was 
ever  considering. 

However,  upon  a  certain  occasion  he  was  destined 
to  learn  a  certain  something  which,  because  of  its  far- 
reaching  effects  upon  himself,  he  would  never  forget. 
He  had  been  busy  in  the  Library  helping  the  Professor 
arrange  and  tabulate  certain  references.  •  Many  of  the 
larger  volumes  were,  in  consequence,  out  of  the  shelves, 
and,  at  the  suggestion  of  "Mistress  Millicent,"  Aunt 
Violet  was  busy  doing  some  cleaning ;  not  so  engrossed, 
however,  but  that  she  took  a  lively  interest  in  the  con- 
versation of  "her  bettahs,"  particularly  when  it  turned 
upon  Barnolde's  return,  and  his  evident  anxiety  to 
turn  the  Sumner  estate  into  money. 
206 


"VENGEANCE  IS  MINE" 

This  was  a  subject  Robert  had  to  school  himself  to 
discuss  without  feeling.  "The  worse  than  thief,"  he 
had  said  in  reply  to  a  remark  of  the  Professor's.  At 
this  they  were  surprised  by  a  series  of  contented  chuckles 
which  came  from  the  direction  of  Aunt  Violet,  and 
still  more  to  hear  her,  in  a  voice  of  triumph,  declare: 

"Well,  mebbe  he'  11  get  money.  What  if  he  does  ? 
Money  ain't  everything.  He  did  n't  get  Miss  Dorothy, 
dat's  one  ting  sho'.  Him  want  a  chance  to  tohment 
dat  po'  lam'  foh  ebber!  Him!"  and  with  a  contemptu- 
ous shrug  of  her  broad  shoulders  she  turned  yet  more 
zealously  to  her  work. 

Robert's  look  of  amazed  inquiry  made  an  explana- 
tion necessary.  It  was  given  in  the  fewest  words  pos- 
sible. Robert  sat  in  astonished  silence.  Finally  he 
asked  in  a  choking  voice : 

"Does  any  one  know  of  this?" 

"Cousin  Sarah,  of  course,"  the  Professor  replied, 
"and  besides  her,  one  other,  'Long  David,'  as  the  village 
people  call  him.  In  some  manner  ( being  so  much  about 
the  house)  he  learned  enough  to  make  him  curious.  I 
thought  best  to  tell  him  all,  and  enjoin  secrecy.  For 
Dorothy's  sake  we  could  not  have  it  become  village 
gossip.  I  must  warn  Violet." 

Robert  was  silent,  but  it  was  evident  that  the  work 
in  hand  had  lost  its  zest  for  the  worker.  The  air  of 
the  comfortable  room  had  suddenly  become  stifling; 
his  hands  shook  as  if  in  an  ague.  A  half  hour  later 
he  was  baring  his  brow  to  the  searching  autumn  winds, 
now  whistling  through  the  shady  grove. 

He  had  not  in  all  his  life  been  so  angry.  It  was 
207 


DOROTHY 

well  that  a  certain  sallow-faced  man  did  not  cross  his 
path,  else  Middletown  must  have  known  another  sensa- 
tion. 

He  was  taking  himself  with  rapid  strides  straight 
to  Long  David's  unkempt  home.  He  was  not  yet  con- 
scious of  definite  plans,  only  he  must  get  out  where  he 
could  breathe;  to  that  end  he  would  saddle  "Shaggy," 
then  off  to  the  hills ;  but  first  he  must  talk  with  David. 
He  had  just  taken  his  faithful  animal  out  of  the  stall 
when  David  came  out  of  his  own  back  door,  a  little 
precipitately,  it  must  be  confessed. 

"David  Johnson !"  a  shrill,  falsetto  voice  called,  "if 
ye  do  n't  split  up  that  pile  of  stove-wood,  you  will  get 
no  supper,  and  I  want  you  to  understand  that.  You  're 
that  trifling " 

But  David  had  shut  off  reproof,  as  he  frequently 
did,  by  getting  out  of  reach.  Just  then  his  eye  fell  upon 
Robert,  who,  pretending  not  to  have  heard  the  domestic 
fusilade,  was  finding  it  uncommonly  hard  to  fasten  the 
girth  of  "Shaggy's"  saddle.  David  fell  to  with  a  will, 
and  soon  the  animal  was  ready  for  the  hill  scamper,  but 
evidently  his  master  was  not. 

"David,"  Robert  spoke  huskily,  "you  have  known 
of  the  contents  of  Barnolde's  letter  to  Dorothy?" 
David's  response  was  a  low  whistle.  "David,"  Robert 
was  again  speaking,  "something  has  got  to  be  done." 

"What  mout  you  be  thinking  of  doing?" 

"That  is  what  you  must  help  decide.  One  thing: 
he  shall  not  stay  here  and  breathe  the  same  air  she 
once  breathed." 

208 


"VENGEANCE  IS  MINE" 

Again  David  whistled :  "And  that  is  how  the  land 
lays,  is  it?" 

Robert  paled,  then  flushed.  "Never  mind.  All 
that  I  have  to  say  is,  something  must  be  done."  David 
pondered  a  full  minute;  then,  with  the  least  possible 
backward  glance  in  the  direction  of  his  own  doorway, 
he  began  with  a  far-off,  retrospective  air: 

"I  tell  ye,  I  have  often  thought  them  old  Pilgrim 
Fathers  knowed  a  thing  or  two.  They  was  a  little 
severe,  mebbe,  but  there  is  times — any  family  man  will 
bear  me  out  in  this — when  some  of  their  little  schemes 
— their  duckin'  ponds,  for  instance — would  come 
mighty  handy.  Of  course  if  such  a  pleasure  party  as 
I  am  mentioning  should  happen  to  come  off  on  a  chilly 
evening  like  this  is  going  to  be,  it  might  be  a  little  un- 
comfortable. But  then  we  all  have  our  little  incon- 


On  a  certain  evening  (how  long  after  the  conversa- 
tion recorded  above  it  would  be  unbecoming  to  ask), 
Mr.  Barnolde  sat  musing  by  the  Sumner  fireside.  He 
had  now  occupied  the  home  for  several  weeks.  He 
would  have  promptly  acknowledged  that  it  was  not  the 
homelike  place  he  had  known  in  other  days.  The  ab- 
sence of  Cousin  Sarah's  housewifely  touch,  as  well  as 
her  heavily  laden  table,  was  very  evident. 

As  he  mused  he  was  not  in  a  jubilant  mood.  He 
had  held  during  the  afternoon  a  long  conversation  with 
Lawyer  Kenge.  "It  was  a  bit  provoking,"  he  told  him- 
self, "that  when  everything  (barring,  of  course,  a 
14  209 


DOROTHY 

certain  disappointment)  seemed  to  be  moving  as  he 
would  have  it,  a  cloud  should  appear  that  could  neither 
be  despised  nor  overlooked."  Professor  Williamson 
had  that  day  given  formal  notice  that,  at  the  next  ses- 
sion of  the  court,  he  would  contest  the  validity  of  the 
Sumner  will,  and  the  battle,  which  from  the  first  he 
had  planned  to  avoid,  was  on.  To  perfect  a  line  of 
defense  had  been  the  object  of  his  close  closeting  with 
Kenge,  and  he  was  expecting,  as  he  sat  before  the  fire 
annoyed  with  intruding  reflections,  that  gentleman  to 
arrive  at  any  moment,  to  outline  still  further  a  plan  of 
action. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  knock  at  the  door.  With 
much  assurance  he  arose  to  answer  the  summons.  He 
saw  no  dne,  but  as  he  peered  out  wonderingly  he  was 
seized,  and,  before  he  could  cry  out,  a  strong  hand  was 
upon  his  mouth.  In  a  twinkling  he  had  been  blind- 
folded and  bound,  and  in  another  he  was  being  hurried 
with  scant  ceremony  down  a  path,  across  a  street, 
along  a  road,  and  finally  over  a  bridge,  which,  even 
in  the  darkness,  he  recognized  as  being  one  that  led  to 
an  old  mill  now  in  disuse — though  its  deep  pond  was 
still  a  favorite  resort  in  winter  for  village  skaters. 

"Merciful  heavens!  was  he  to  be  drowned  like  an 
entrapped  rat?" — for  his  captors  had  taken  him  to  the 
water's  edge.  "If  the  darkness  were  only  not  so  dense, 
chat,  in  some  way,  he  might  discover  the  identity  of  his 
silent  assailants!" 

As  if  in  answer  to  his  thought,  the  bandage  was 
removed  from  his  eyes;  but  in  the  darkness  only  two 
weird,  shadowy  forms,  each  unrecognizable,  greeted  his 
2IO 


"VENGEANCE  IS  MINE" 

straining  vision.  Suddenly  he  felt  himself  seized,  then 
flung  far  out  into  the  yielding  waters. 

But  when  he  had  thought  himself  sinking,  he  was 
drawn  to  the  shore  by  a  rope,  which,  in  his  terror,  he 
had  not  known  was  about  his  body.  As  he  staggered 
on  the  bank,  trying  to  rid  mouth,  eyes,  and  ears  of  the 
water  that  seemed  choking  him,  a  hollow,  sepulchral 
voice  called  out,  "Souse  him  again !"  and  again  his  feet 
flew  into  the  air,  and  once  more  he  was  struggling  in 
the  water;  and  then  it  crept  into  his  benumbed  brain 
that  this  did  not  mean  death,  only  punishment;  and 
if  conscience  had  not  told  him  for  what,  he  must  soon 
have  known,  for  again  the  peculiar  nasal  drawl,  with 
a  tantalizing  familiar  yet  elusive  ring,  called  out: 
"Do  n't  be  skeered  friend !  We  're  just  washing  away 
a  little  dirt,  a  little  moral  dirt  mebbe.  You  '11  be  all 
the  better  when  we  're  through.  You  'd  'a'  liked  the 
bird  as  well  as  the  nest,  would  you?  Well,  friend,  it 
will  certainly  take  another  dip  to  get  you  in  prime  con- 
dition, and  then  I  have  my  doubts." 

"Here,  it  is  my  turn!"  It  was  a  close,  tense  voice 
that  whispered  almost  in  his  ear;  and  once  again  the 
wretched  man  was  hurried  to  the  water's  edge,  and  a 
hand — how  strong  it  was;  how  sinewy! — grasped  his 
throat.  He  tried  to  cry  out,  but  the  sound  died  away. 
He  tried  to  beg,  but  tighter  grew  the  merciless  fingers. 
This  was  not  mere  punishment,  this  could  mean  only 
death.  He  sank  to  the  ground,  the  world  reeled,  he 
knew  no  more ! 

"Thou  shalt  not  kill !"  He  of  the  merciless  fingers 
paused.  Had  some  one  actually  spoken?  The  voice 
211 


DOROTHY 

had  seemed  so  near!  Again,  "Thou  shalt  not  kill ;"  but 
this  timely  command  came  as  a  whisper  on  the  evening 
breeze.  "Kill?"  O  no!  He  had  not  meant  to  kill, 
that  would  mean  murder!  The  ringers  loosed  in 
terror  at  the  thought.  What  if  the  man  were  already 
dead  ?  Ah !  the  unspeakable  horror  of  the  thought ! 

Only  the  reprieved  have  known  such  joy  as  was 
his  a  few  moments  later  when  he  whom  he  so  despised 
slowly  staggered  to  his  feet,  a  pitiable,  shrinking,  yet  a 
living  man. 

"It  is  enough,  it  is  more  than  enough,"  he  said  to 
his  companion ;  "let  us  be  going." 

"My  friend,"  the  sepulchral  voice  was  again  speak- 
ing, "you  might  as  well  understand,  first  as  last,  that 
it 's  never  goin'  to  be  very  healthy  for  you  in  this  neck 
of  the  woods.  Take  the  advice  of  one  who  means  well, 
and  clear  out." 

At  this  the  men,  whoever  they  were,  disappeared, 
and,  though  nearer  dead  than  alive,  Barnolde,  unbound, 
made  his  way  slowly  and  painfully  back  to  the  Sumner 
home,  where  Kenge  had  been  awaiting  him. 

How,  upon  his  arrival,  there  were  questions  and 
counter-questions ;  how  Kenge  paced  the  floor  and  called 
for  immediate  vengeance ;  how  Barnolde  himself  cow- 
ered through  it  all,  fearing,  trembling,  with  a  dread  he 
dared  not  name, — all  this  is  better  imagined  than  told. 

The  public  was  never  taken  into  the  confidence  of 
either,  but  it  learned  a  day  or  two  later  that  their 
"honored  citizen"  had  received  another  imperative  sum- 
mons home,  and  that  his  entire  business  was,  for  the 
present,  in  the  hands  of  lawyer  Kenge. 
212 


"VENGEANCE  IS  MINE" 

On  that  self-same  evening,  even  while  lawyer  and 
client  planned,  a  solitary  figure  might  have  been  seen 
slowly  journeying  along  a  lonely  road  that  wound  in 
and  out  among  the  hills.  If  appearances  might  count, 
the  traveler  was  in  a  deep  state  of  dejection.  His 
head  rested  upon  his  breast,  and  his  hands  hung  wearily 
at  his  side,  scarcely  touching  the  bridle-rein  of  the  ani- 
mal that  carried  him. 

"A  murderer,"  he  muttered  again,  and  again.  "Yes, 
murder  was  in  my  heart.  Another  minute  and  all 
would  have  been  over."  He  shuddered,  then  in  an 
agony  of  self-condemnation  he  touched  the  rein;  then, 
scarce  knowing  what  he  did,  he  slid  to  the  ground. 
A  great  stone  was  by  the  roadside;  upon  this  he  sank, 
and  while  he  sat,  a  strange  thing  happened. 

A  face  (even  in  the  darkness)  came  close  to  his, 
and  eyes  that  sorrowed  looked  into  his  own.  He  caught 
himself  wondering  if  MacByrne  was  actually  present 
in  the  flesh.  Then  it  came  to  him  that  it  had  been 
the  God  whom  that  true  friend  so  faithfully  served  had 
interposed  to  save  him  from  the  effects  of  his  wicked 
hate.  With  this  revelation  there  was  another.  He 
saw  his  heart  as  he  had  not  before  seen  it,  full  of 
hopes,  dreams,  ambitions,  for  not  one  of  which  he  had 
thought  it  worth  while  to  ask  guidance.  Since  the  new 
view  of  himself  and  of  his  weaknesses,  could  he,  dare 
he,  attempt  to  live  his  life  in  his  own  strength  ?  It  was 
a  strange  altar  at  which  this  old  battle  of  a  soul  was 
now  about  to  be  fought.  The  night-winds  swept 
through  the  murmuring  pines  on  the  hillside.  The 
widening  creek  sang  its  own  blithe  song,  as  intent 
213 


DOROTHY 

upon  its  mission  it  leaped  from  rock  to  rock.  The  stars 
came  out,  and  looked  down,  as  perhaps  they  had  looked 
on  that  other  night  in  Gethsemane;  but  finally,  as  the 
first  beams  of  the  morning  sun  crept  in  among  the  hills, 
the  youth  arose ;  a  new  light  shone  in  his  face.  Hence- 
forth the  world  would  have  no  temptation  that  would 
swerve  him  from  the  service  he  had  chosen. 


214 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 
HUNTED— FOUND 

SPRING  at  length  drew  near;  and  with  it  the  long 
anticipated  "court  week,"  during  which  the  validity  of 
the  "Sumner  will"  was  to  be  contested. 

This  same  will  had  been,  through  the  long  winter, 
a  fruitful  topic  for  discussion,  not  only  in  homes,  but 
in  all  places  of  chance  meeting  throughout  the  county. 
It  had  even  intruded  itself  into  the  "half  hour"  most 
planned  to  allow  themselves  before  "preaching."  As  for 
"quiltings"  and  "apple-parings,"  these  had  become  mere 
debating  societies  where  the  right  and  wrong  of  the 
question  at  issue  was  argued  with  more  or  less  wa'rmth. 

Sympathy  for  Dorothy  was  by  no  means  the  occasion 
for  this  widespread  interest.  It  lay  rather  in  that 
proverbial  love  of  Americans  for  fair  play.  If  the 
Reverend  Mr.  Barnolde  had  a  "case,"  they  wanted  to 
know  it ;  and  if,  as  the  opposition  had  taken  it  upon 
themselves  to  prove,  there  had  been  "fraud,"  they 
wanted  that  established  beyond  cavil. 

"Guess  we  will  lay  off  for  a  spell,  and  see  how  it 
comes  out,"  was  the  decision — as  the  week  approached — 
in  homes  all  over  the  county;  a  decision  wonderfully 
strengthened  when  it  was  learned  that  the  most  distin- 
guished member  of  Congress  the  State  boasted — whose 
215 


DOROTHY 

mere  name  caused  a  thrill  of  State  pride — was  to  be 
present  and  conduct  the  contestant's  case. 

It  became  really  a  matter  of  patriotism  to  be  pres- 
ent: There  had  been  considerable  speculation  whether 
Kenge  would  be  alone  in  looking  after  his  client's 
interests.  This  was  set  at  rest  on  the  day  preceding 
the  trial  by  the  arrival  of  a  small,  wiry,  thin-featured 
man,  whose  sharp,  ferrety,  black  eyes  snapped  and 
glinted,  as  with  one  contemptuous  sweep  they  took  in 
the  simple  surroundings,  and  with  scant  courtesy 
ensconced  himself  in  the  best  room  in  the  tavern,  which, 
it  came  out,  had  been  reserved  for  him  for  weeks. 

Middletown  scarce  dared  draw  its  breath,  for  the 
name  sprawled  over  the  tavern  register  was  that  of 
the  Honorable  Jeremiah  Flint;  a  name  quite  as  noted, 
in  its  own  way,  as  was  that  of  the  opposing  counsel. 

It  was  openly  boasted  that  no  man  had  cleared  so 
many  criminals  as  he.  His  one  question,  when  consider- 
ing the  acceptance  of  a  case,  was  said  to  be,  "How 
much  is  there  in  it?" — the  "much"  having  no  refer- 
ence whatever  to  such  paltry  questions  as  mere  law,  or 
even  justice.  The  reply  being  satisfactory,  he  threw 
himself  into  its  conduct  with  a  zeal  that  seldom  failed 
of  success.  He  had  his  own  methods  of  procedure, 
browbeating  and  intimidation  of  witnesses  being  chief. 

Professor  Williamson  looked  grave.  How  would 
the  witnesses  upon  whose  testimony  they  must  largely 
depend,  endure  the  withering  sarcasm  sure  to  be  heaped 
upon  them?  For  instance,  there  was  "Joe,"  honest  to 
the  core,  but  by  no  means  worldly-wise.  What  if  he 
were  to  fail  in  his  story  of  Barnolde's  successful 
2l6 


HUNTED— FOUND 

ingratiating  of  himself  into  the  business  of  the  "Store?" 
There  was  also  Cousin  Sarah,  the  boundaries  of  whose 
world  did  not  lie  far  beyond  Middletown ;  and  David, 
who  had  lived  for  the  hour  when,  the  last  restraint 
removed,  he  might  tell  of  his  "suspicions,"  of  his  search 
among  the  ledgers,  and  of  his  precious  "find." 

But  "thrice  armed  is  he  who  hath  his  quarrel  just." 
Remembering  this,  the  Professor  took  courage,  for  each 
step  of  the  investigations  had  shown  how  just  that 
cause  he  had  espoused. 

The  question  of  a  jury  proved  troublesome.  At  the 
last  it  was  still  found  to  be  made  up  largely  of  "new" 
people,  whose  sympathies  were  with  the  defendant. 
The  Honorable  Mr.  Flint  had  his  own  original  method 
of  conducting  a  trial.  He  liked  to  place  his  own  wit- 
nesses on  the  stand  first,  and  draw  from  them  his  case 
as  he  wanted  it  to  appear.  As  the  opposing  witnesses 
were  called,  he  would  take  care  to  see  that  their  testi- 
mony was  rendered  worthless.  At  the  close,  it  was  his 
habit  to  gather  the  various  points  together,  and  weave 
them  into  a  vituperative  speech,  which  he  would  "fling" 
at  the  heads  of  the  jury.  In  case  the  "opposition" 
rallied  and  attempted  a  counter  argument,  he  kept  a 
reserve  of  vitriol  on  which  to  draw. 

Kenge  was  delegated  to  make  the  overtures  to  Law- 
yer C ,  asking  that,  in  the  present  case,  the  usual 

order  of  procedure  be  reversed,  and  the  witnesses  of 
the  "defense"  be  called  first.  To  their  surprise,  ready 
consent  was  given.  In  fact,  nothing  could  have  suited 
the  prosecution  so  well.  By  this  unlooked-for  arrange- 
ment Barnolde's  entire  line  of  defense  would  be 
2I7 


DOROTHY 

revealed.  As  for  the  Honorable  Jeremiah's  vitriol, 

Lawyer  C did  not  fear  it.  Indeed,  it  was  hinted 

he  had  a  supply  of  his  own. 

Barnolde  was  the  first  to  be  sworn — Barnolde,  look- 
ing very  sleek  and  exceedingly  well  groomed.  In  a 
clear  and  succinct  manner  he  told  of  his  acquaintance 
with  John  Sumner. 

"Will  you  tell  the  Court,"  it  was  Lawyer  Flint 
who  asked,  "why  you  remained  a  guest  at  the  Sumner 
home  when  a  tavern  was  so  near  at  hand?" 

Barnolde  hesitated,  as  if  taken  unawares.  There 
were  many  who  believed  this  to  be  true. 

Finally  he  lifted  his  head,  and  in  a  deprecatory 
manner,  as  if  loath  to  lay  bare  family  secrets,  began  to 
make  answer.  As  the  hesitating  words  fell  from  his 
lips,  the  picture  they  drew  of  a  lonely  old  man,  clinging 
with  eagerness  to  a  sympathetic  stranger  was  exceed- 
ingly pathetic. 

"He  was  always  left  to  himself;"  so  ran  the  testi- 
mony of  Barnolde;  "the  housekeeper" — Cousin  Sarah 
insensibly  straightened — "was  always  busy,  and  had  no 
time  to  spare  for  an  invalid,  so  the  kind-hearted,  old 
man  was  left  quite  to  his  own  resources.  The  situa- 
tion so  appealed  to  me  that  I  sought  to  arouse  him,  to 
interest  him;  and  so,"  he  added  modestly,  "he  grew 
to  depend  upon  me,  and  when  I  desired  to  leave  he 
insisted  that  I  remain." 

"Where,  pray,  was  the  young  girl  I  have  been  told 
called  him  father?"  asked  his  counsel  with  an  unmistak- 
able sneer. 

Barnolde  again  paused ;  it  would  seem  his  very  soul 
2l8 


HUNTED— FOUND 

was  wrung  with  the  unwelcome  truths  he  was  being 
forced  to  utter. 

"Always  gone,  always  interested  with  something 
outside  the  home,  usually  at  the  'Beeches.'  " 

"A  peculiarly  loving  daughter,  I  must  say,"  sneered 
the  questioner.  "Once  more,"  he  continued,  "where 
was  this  affectionate  young  lady  on  the  day  of  her 
father's  death?" 

"Picnicking.  She  left  almost  at  daybreak  for  a 
pleasure  trip  up  in  the  hills,  in  company,  of  course,  with 
her  friends  at  the  'Beeches.'  " 

"The  'Beeches'?  the  'Beeches'?"  Flint  appeared  to 
be  in  thought.  "Ah,  I  have  it  now.  The  fanciful  name 
for  the  home  of  the  gentleman  who  has  shown  such  an 
interest  in  the  distribution  of  the  'savings'  of  the 
neglected  old  man." 

There  was  a  rustle  in  the  audience.  It  was  easy 
to  see  that  the  venomous  shaft  had  struck,  and  Profes- 
sor Williamson,  sitting  in  a  near-by  seat,  felt  the  eyes 
of  the  entire  audience  turned  towards  him,  and  realized 
that  his  motives  were  being  critically  weighed. 

"May  I  ask,"  it  was  Senator  C who  spoke,  "did 

the  bequest  of  John  Sumner,  making  you  his  legatee, 
come  as  a  surprise,  or  had  you  known  of  the  intention? 
Will  you  kindly  inform  the  Court?" 

Barnolde  waited  a  full  minute  before  answering; 
:then  said :  "I  will  answer  that  I  did  not  fully  know,  but 
I  may  add  that  I  found,  even  in  my  first  acquaintance 
with  him,  that  he  possessed  a  rarely  philanthropic  spirit. 
His  heart  yearned  for  humanity.  He  was  so  much 
alone  in  his  family  that  it  was  a  gratification  to  him  to 
219 


DOROTHY 

confide  these  yearnings  to  me,  though  a  stranger.  This 
he  often  did.  He  was  exceedingly  loyal  to  Middletown, 
and  took  a  great  pride  in  its  future — a  future  he  had 
done  much  to  secure — and  wanted,  with  all  his 
heart,  to  leave  a  monument  of  some  kind  which  should 
at  once  keep  his  memory  green  and  bless  his  townsmen. 
He  had  many  plans  in  his  heart,  but  seemed  most  to 
favor  the  one  afterwards  outlined  in  his  will.  He  asked 
me  more  than  once  to  assume  such  a  trust.  I  hesitated 
on  account  of  the  time  necessary  and  the  work  in- 
volved." 

"Let  us  understand  the  matter.  Do  you  declare 
you  did  not  know  of  the  trust  before  the  man's  death?" 

"I  object,"  snapped  Lawyer  Flint. 

"I  insist  on  an  answer,"  continued  Senator  C . 

"Sit  down,"  commanded  Flint,  and  Barnolde  sat 
down,  the  question  only  answered  by  inference. 

Kenge  was  the  next  called.  It  was  his  to  tell  of  the 
writing  of  the  will.  This  having  been  done,  he  testified, 
in  his  office  on  a  certain  date,  in  accordance  with  the 
wishes  of  the  testator:  who,  he  declared,  closely  scruti- 
nized each  sentence  before  affixing  his  signature.  All 
of  which  would  be  attested  to  by  the  witnesses  in  their 
course. 

"Was  John  Sumner  alone  with  you  at  the  time  of 
the  writing?"  It  was  the  opposing  counsel  who 
asked. 

Kenge  unhesitatingly  made  answer.  "He  was,  save 
for  the  presence  of  the  witnessing  clerk." 

"The  will  bears  the  date  July  I3th,  I  believe?" 

"It  does;"  and  Kenge  grew  a  little  uncomfortable. 
2  2O 


HUNTED— FOUND 

"At  what  hour  of  the  day  did  I  understand  you  to 
say  the  document  was  written?" 

"I  do  not  exactly  remember  as  to  the  hour." 

"In  the  forenoon  or  afternoon?"  insisted  the  ques- 
tioner. 

There  was  a  pause  and  then  came  the  answer,  "In 
the  forenoon." 

"And  you  affirm  that  Mr.  Barnolde  was  not  present 
at  the  writing,  knew  nothing  of  it  ?" 

"I  object,"  inerrupted  Flint,  who,  not  knowing  to 
what  the  questions  were  tending,  was  growing  nervous. 

Following  the  objection  a  little  breeze  sprang  up  as 
to  certain  legal  technicalities,  which  was  settled  by  the 
Judge  allowing  the  question  to  stand. 

"I    await    my    answer,"    quietly    insisted    Senator 

"He  was  not."  And  now  there  was  a  note  of  defi- 
ance in  Kenge's  reply. 

"Very  well ;  that  is  all,"  the  questioner  made  reply. 

It  is  the  unknown  that  terrifies,  and  in  their  anxiety 
as  to  what  use  was  meant  to  be  made  of  the  admission 
obtained,  both  Kenge  and  Flint  suffered  their  first 
apprehensions. 

By  the  time  the  defense  had  brought  forth  its 
remaining  witnesses  (most  of  them  new  people),  who, 
from  their  angle  of  observation,  testified  to  the  sound- 
ness of  the  testator's  mind,  and  of  the  disinterestedness 
of  Mr.  Barnolde's  friendship  for  the  same,  the  first  day 
was  quite  spent.  With  the  adjournment  of  court,  it 
would  have  taken  a  wise  prophet  to  have  foretold  the 
final  result. 

221 


DOROTHY 

The  preliminaries  over  on  the  second  morning,  and 
the  eager  crowd  in  its  place,  Professor  Williamson  took 
the  stand. 

"Will  you  tell  the  Court  what  you  know  concerning 
the  last  day  of  this  man's  life?"  It  was  his  counsel 
who  asked. 

In  a  few  words  he  told  of  the  plans  for  the  day's 
innocent  outing;  of  the  start  home;  of  the  hurrying 
messenger  who  met  them;  of  the  appeal  to  himself  in 
the  dying  man's  eyes ;  of  the  half-articulated  request  for 
writing  material,  and  of  Barnolde's  intrusion  of  him- 
self at  the  last  moment. 

"Will  you  further  tell  the  Court  of  your  belief  of 
what  lay  back  of  that  appeal  ?" 

In  an  instant  the  Honorable  Jeremiah  had  sprung 
to  his  feet.  "Belief!  Belief!"  he  shouted.  "May  it 
please  your  Honor,  this  Court  can  have  nothing  to  do 
with  a  man's  beliefs.  We  want  facts ;  we  will  listen  to 
nothing  but  facts.  I  insist  that  if  the  gentleman  has 
told  all  he  knows  and  must  now  deal  in  fancies,  that 
he  sit  down.  I  appeal  to  your  Honor,  must  we  now  be 
deluged  with  fancies?" 

"I  sustain  the  appeal,"  the  Judge  slowly  made  an- 
swer. 

Lawyer  C was  at  once  on  the  floor:  "The 

gentleman  has  asked  for  facts;  I  consider  the  present 
an  opportune  moment  fully  to  gratify  that  desire. 

"Honorable  Judge  and   Gentlemen   of   the  Jury: 

Going  back,  as  we  must,  to  the  bedside  of  the  dying 

man  whose  will  we  are  considering,   I  state  it  as  a 

fact  known  to  each  one  present,  that,  not  infrequently 

222 


HUNTED— FOUND 

before  the  passing  of  a  soul,  through  the  mercy  of  God 
a  clearance  of  vision  is  vouchsafed.  We  shall  prove 
such  a  clearance  came  to  John  Sumner,  and  that  in  the 
last  moment  he  realized,  and  sought  to  right  the  wrong 
he  had  committed.  For  we  concede  that,  led  by  a  will 
stronger  than  his  own  failing  one,  he  affixed  his  name 
to  the  main  part  of  the  document  in  question,  having 
(as  we  shall  prove)  no  just  conception  of  the  matters 
involved.  We  shall  also  prove  that  he  was  not  alone, 
but  that  Mr.  Barnolde  was  not  only  present,  but  aided 
by  Mr.  Kenge  dictated  each  false  word. 

"As  the  Honorable  Counsel  is  anxious  for  facts,  we 
shall  establish  a  further  one,  that,  from  the  first  fate- 
ful hour  of  his  entrance  into  the  Sumner  home,  he 
systematically  sought  to  alienate  the  failing  man  from 
those  of  his  own  household,  and  to  enlist  his  sympathies 
in  that  scheme  now  before  the  citizens  of  this  town. 
And  I  further  charge — and  I  crave  your  closest  atten- 
tion— that  if  the  Sumner  estate  had  been  permitted  to 
be  turned  into  money,  Henry  Barnolde  would  to-day 
be  miles  away.  Not  one  moment  did  he  expect  to 
carry  out  the  wishes  of  the  testator.  As  for  the  codicil, 
that  added  insult  to  the  object  of  John  Sumner's 
tenderest  love,  I  now  charge  it  as  a  forgery, — each 
word  written  by  the  man  who  sits  yonder." 

Certainly  never  were  words  so  foolhardy  unless 

the  fullest  proofs  were  at  hand.  As  Lawyer  C 

concluded,  that  nonchalance,  which  had  amounted  to 
indifference,  disappeared  from  the  face  of  the  accused 
man,  and  the  Honorable  Jeremiah  became  a  raging 
terror.  Woe  to  the  next  witness,  unless  that  witness 
223 


DOROTHY 

were  well  poised,  and  woe  to  the  prosecution  if  she 
were  not ;  for  the  one  now  promising  to  tell  the  "whole 
truth"  is  Cousin  Sarah. 

A  word  concerning  this  important  witness  seems 
necessary.  She  was  a  quiet  woman  of  few  words,  but 
of  ready  sympathy,  and  possessed  of  that  executive 
ability  which  in  any  community  makes  its  possessor  at 
once  a  marked  as  well  as  a  useful  person.  Following 
the  death  of  her  husband  she  had  managed  the  farm — 
it  lay  near  the  village — with  such  success  that  it 
became  an  object  lesson  to  her  neighbors.  Friends  had 
marveled  that  she  had  been  willing,  in  the  midst  of 
this,  to  assume  the  care  of  the  Sumner  home.  But  so 
well  had  she  performed  her  self-imposed  task  that  the 
home  had  scarcely  known  a  break,  and  certainly  neither 
man  nor  maiden  a  lack. 

But  one  can  not  be  sure  of  the  depths  of  those  quiet, 
duty-doing  people.  There  is  a  proverb  that  avers 
"Still  waters  run  deep,"  and  adds  the  sage  reflection 
that  "His  Satanic  Majesty  is  apt  to  be  found  at  the 
bottom." 

The  proverb  was  about  to  be  exemplified !  She 
had  arisen  to  give  her  testimony,  smothering  a  very 
maelstrom  of  indignation.  This  had  begun  in  the  con- 
temptuous reference  to  her  as  "the  housekeeper."  It 
had  grown  as  she  had  listened  to  the  shameless  insinua- 
tions of  her  own  and  Dorothy's  neglect.  But  Lawyer 
C was  a  skillful  questioner,  and  under  his  guid- 
ance she  shortly  began  showing  the  love  and  sympathy 
that  had  existed  in  the  family  until  the  stranger's 
coming. 

224 


HUNTED— FOUND 

This  would  never  do;  so,  with  a  bound,  the  Hon- 
orable Jeremiah  sprang  quite  in  front  of  her,  and  shak- 
ing his  fist  directly  in  her  face  shouted :  "Woman — alas 
for  the  shame  of  it! — you,  too,  have  joined  in  the  lies 
being  uttered.  All  for  the  purpose  of  defeating  the 
wishes  of  a  neglected  old  man,  who,  by  all  accounts, 
was  greatly  better  than  they  who  fattened  on  his 
bounty!  "Something  has  been  said,"  he  continued, 
scornfully,  "about  God.  Woman,"  and  his  livid,  dis- 
torted face  was  quite  close  to  hers.  "Tell  the  truth — 
the  truth,  I  say — lest  that  same  God  make  an  example 
of  you,  as  He  did  of  your  kinswoman,  Mistress  Sap- 
phira." 

A  murmur  of  indignation  went  around  the  room. 
A  half  dozen  men  sprang  to  their  feet,  ready  to 
champion  the  insulted  woman.  But  what  was  she  her- 
self doing?  Certainly  not  cringing,  nor  yet  weeping, 
as  Flint  had  seen- scores  do  under  such  assaults.  With 
head  thrown  slightly  back,  with  set  lips,  and  eyes  that 
shone,  she  was  advancing  steadily  upon  the  Honorable 
Jeremiah;  and  he — is  it  true  that  bullies  are  inherent 
cowards? — he  was  retreating  before  her,  until  he  stood 
quite  by  the  wondering  jury. 

As  she  approached  her  long,  sinewy  fingers  clutched 
and  unclutched,  until  the  Honorable  Jeremiah  had  an 
uncomfortable  sensation  at  his  throat.  But  what  was 
her  purpose  ? 

"I  lie,  do  I?"  She  was  looking  quite  into  her  ac- 
cuser's eyes.  "You  are  mistaken.  Not  but  what  there 
has  been  plenty  of  lying  done.  But  you,  sir,  and  he,  and 
he,"  pointing  to  Barnolde  and  Kenge,  "in  turn,  are  the 
15  225 


DOROTHY 

guilty  ones.  Do  you  understand  ?  Do  I  make  it  plain  ? 
Mistress  Sapphira,  indeed!" 

How  much  she  might  have  said  will  not  be  known, 

for  Lawyer  C ,  seeing  her  overwrought  condition, 

came  forward  and  (as  if  she  had  finished  her  testi- 
mony) said  with  the  utmost  courtesy,  "That  will  do, 
madam;"  then,  with  great  dignity,  he  led  the  trembling 
woman  to  Ger  seat.  As  he  did  so  the  room  broke  into 
prolonged  applause. 

"No  demonstrations,  please;  no  demonstrations!" 
This  from  the  judge,  and  the  incident  was  closed. 

There  were  yet,  as  Long  David  knew,  several  wit- 
nesses to  be  examined  before  his  turn,  but  at  this  junc- 
ture he  "  'lowed"  to  himself  he  "did  n't  care  if  there 
was  a  dozen,  he  had  to  get  out  where  he  could  breathe ;" 
so  he  made  his  way  down  the  crowded  aisle,  and  finally 
into  the  open. 

Once  outside,  his  face  underwent  a  series  of  the 
most  wonderful  contortions.  Then  he  doubled  himself 
together  as  if  in  pain ;  finally  a  whole  scale  of  chuckles 
smote  the  air,  among  which  might  be  caught  certain 
sentences:  "Spunk!  Grit  clear  through!  Who'd  'a' 
thought  it?  Good  for  Cousin  Sarah!" 

Still  in  this  mood,  he  reached  the  porch  of  the 
tavern,  an  objective  point  all  the  while.  As  he  placed 
his  foot  upon  the  first  of  the  steps  he  observed  that  a 
couple  of  strangers  had  preceded  him,  and  were  already 
comfortable  upon  one  of  the  settees. 

A  stranger  was  always  a  source  of  immediate  inter- 
est to  David,  owing  to  the  infinite  possibilities  of  giving 
and  receiving  information,  either  process  being  equally 
226 


HUNTED— FOUND 

pleasant;  so,  in  a  few  minutes,  he  had  brushed  aside 
the  occurrences  of  the  court-room,  and  was  engaged  in 
a  delightful  game  of  "give  and  take." 

The  conversation  had  been  begun  by  the  strangers 
asking  David  how  long  he  had  lived  in  these  parts. 
Upon  receiving  his  reply  there  had  followed  a  series 
of  such  skillfully  put  questions  that  David  did  not 
suspect  he  was  giving  a  remarkably  succinct  history  of 
the  village,  old  and  new. 

"Suppose  you  have  a  lot  of  strangers  drop  in?"  one 
at  length  casually  remarked. 

"Strangers!  Humph!  It  seems  to  me  there  ain't 
nobody  but  strangers  any  more." 

"Did  you  ever  happen  to  know  among  the  new- 
comers a  quiet,  gentlemanly  fellow  answering  to  the 
name  of  Arnold?  Henry  Arnold?" 

One  skilled  in  watching  countenances  must  have 
noticed  that,  though  the  question  was  carelessly  put, 
the  eyes  of  the  questioner  bespoke  eagerness.  David's 
answer  was  a  bit  delayed. 

"Gentlemanly  chaps  a-plenty/'  he  finally  said,  "but 
no  Arnold  as  I  knows  on,  and  I  guess  I  would  a* 
knowed." 

But  David  was  now  rested,  and  he  suddenly  re- 
membered that  he  might  be  missing  much  over  at  the 
"court,"  so  he  arose  to  go,  remarking  as  he  did  so, 
"Yes,  gentlemanly  chaps  a-plenty,  and  one  of  them  is 
having  a  trial  over  at  the  new  court-house.  By  the 
way,  strangers,  seats  is  free.  You  might  as  well  drop 
in  a  spell." 

227 


DOROTHY 

"Don't  know  but  what  we  will,"  one  replied. 
"But  tell  us  first  all  about  it." 

"It  is  only  a  few  steps  to  the  court-room,  gentle- 
men, so  there  is  no  time  to  go  into  details,  but  it  is  a 
plum'  case  of  forgery,  stealing,  and  a  lot  of  other 
meanness  thrown  in.  Big  guns  are  arguing  on  both 
sides.  It  '11  pay  to  drop  in." 

When  they  had  reached  the  building  the  doctor  was 
giving  his  testimony.  David  was  at  once  interested; 
but  feeling  himself  a  sort  of  host  to  the  men  who  had 
accompanied  him,  he  was  at  some  pains  to  show  them 
a  seat. 

There  was  a  little  stir  as  feet  were  awkwardly 
shuffled  to  make  room  for  the  newcomers.  Hearing 
which,  Barnolde  slowly  turned  his  head,  which,  until 
the  moment,  had  been  resting  in  his  hands.  The  truth 
is,  he  was  wishing  himself  well  out  of  it  all.  He  would 
never  have  undertaken  the  game  had  he  thought  such 
an  ado  would  be  made  about  it.  A  half  smile  played 
over  his  face :  "How  easy  it  would  be  to  disappear,  and 
leave  the  entire  company,  Flint  included,  to  settle  the 
matter  as  they  choose!" 

By  this  time  his  face  was  turned  half  expectantly 
towards  the  door. 

"Only  that  lout,  Long  David,  half  mountebank, 
half  fool,"  was  his  comment  to  himself,  and  then  his 
eyes  fell  upon  the  two  men  David  had  just  shown  to 
a  seat. 

Their  eyes  met  his,  and  demanded  recognition.  A 
shiver  ran  through  his  frame,  and  an  ashy  pallor  crept 
228 


HUNTED— FOUND 

over  his  face;  though  none  save  the  three  guessed  the 
secret:  Hunted  and  hunter  had  at  last  met! 

As  for  the  hunted?  After  that  first  choking  mo- 
ment of  recognition,  there  came  a  thought :  he  had  out- 
witted men  before;  might  he  not  again?  There  was 
an  empty  room  back  of  the  jury.  If  he  could  reach  that 
and  its  open  window,  all  would  be  well.  There  were 
horses  tied  about  the  "square,"  and  "The  Knobs,"  but 
a  few  miles  away,  would  soon  swallow  him  up.  At  any 
rate  it  was  worth  trying.  Presently  he  arose  (having 
remarked  to  his  counsel)  that  he  would  step  out  for  a 
breath  of  air.  With  that  he  carefully  threaded  his  way 
among  the  witnesses.  As  he  approached  the  room,  un- 
consciously he  quickened  his  steps,  and  was  just  passing 
through  its  door  when  a  strong  arm  was  laid  on  his, 
and  a  voice  whispered,  "Will  you  come  quietly?" 

He  might  have  done  so,  but  at  that  instant  the 
impatient  neighing  of  a  horse  that  had  perhaps  waited 
too  long  for  his  master  was  wafted  through  the  open 
windows,  and  with  it  the  laughter  of  some  children  at 
play.  Ah !  now  that  he  was  about  to  lose  it,  how  sweet 
was  liberty,  how  sweet  was  life!  He  shook  off  the 
detaining  hand,  and  with  a  bound  reached  the  open 
window;  but  once  there,  he  found  himself  struggling 
with  two  men  instead  of  one. 

"It  is  no  use;  the  hunt  is  over,"  a  tense  voice  whis- 
pered. 

He  stood  for  a  moment,  then  swayed  limply.  In 
another  a  pair  of  hands  held  him  as  in  a  vise.  Though 
this  had  happened  quietly,  those  nearest  the  door 
229 


DOROTHY 

realized  that  a  struggle  of  some  sort  was  in  progress. 
A  few  crowded  to  the  door.  Others  followed.  One  of 
the  men  made  his  way  forward  until  he  stood  quite  in 
front  of  the  surprised  judge,  and  then  he  called  out 
in  a  clear,  authoritative  voice:  "May  it  please  your 
Honor,  I  hereby  present  to  you  requisition  papers  duly 
signed  by  your  governor,  and  in  the  name  of  the  Com- 
monwealth of  New  Jersey  I  arrest  Henry  Arnold,  alias 
Henry  Barnolde,  on  the  several  charges  of  embezzle- 
ment, arson,  and  murder." 

Then  ensued  a  scene  which  falls  to  the  lot  of  few  to 
witness.  Men  sprang  upon  chairs,  and  demanded  to 
know  what  it  all  meant.  Women  without  number 
screamed,  and  several  fainted  outright.  Improvised 
litters  tried  in  vain  to  make  their  way  to  the  windows 
through  the  surging  crowds.  Trusty  farm-dogs,  until 
the  moment  curled  in  peaceful  dreams  at  their  mas- 
ters' feet,  were  trampled  upon,  and  added  their  howls 
to  the  growing  confusion,  while  high  over  all  sounded 
a  fervent,  rich  voice :  "Bress  de  Lawd ;  bress,  I  say,  de 
good  Lawd !"  From  which  it  would  appear  even  Aunt 
Violet  had  thought  it  worth  while  to  "lay  off  and  see 
how  it  was  a  goin'  to  come  out." 

Her  weird  outburst  did  more  to  avert  the  threat- 
ened panic  than  the  imperative  rapping  of  the  judge. 
But  a  further  session  of  the  court  was  impossible;  so, 
with  order  restored,  it  was  dismissed  for  the  day. 

Aunt  Violet,  already  out  of  doors,  was  hastening 
through  the  woodland,  intent  on  reaching  her  own  back 
door.  Her  head  was  thrown  back,  and  a  rapt  look 
230 


HUNTED— FOUND 

overspread  her  shining  face.    Presently  she  began  to  im- 
provise : 

"  O,  it'  s  mighty  nigh  to  de  golden  gate, 
And  de  road  ain't  rough,  and  its  powerful  straight, 
And  Satan's  cotched,  and  his  chance  is  slim, 
And  bress  de  Lawd  ouah  lamp  is  trim." 

At  the  court-room  Long  David  was  the  man  of  con- 
sequence. With  his  voice  quivering  with  excitement 
and  importance  he  told  to  each  batch  of  new  listeners 
"the  straight"  of  the  whole  matter. 

We  ourselves,  being  anxious  to  know,  can  do  no 
better  than  listen.  It  appeared  that  the  accused  had 
held  a  responsible  position  in  a  charitable  institution  in 
the  State  that  had  demanded  his  return.  He  had  em- 
bezzled funds  belonging  to  the  same,  and  as  one  crime 
never  fails  to  lead  to  another,  fearing  detection  he  had 
stealthily  set  fire  to  the  building,  and  six  of  the  unfortu- 
nate inmates  had  been  burned  to  death. 

Can  a  man  escape  the  consequences  of  guilt?  His- 
tory, and  a  score  of  instances  that  escape  the  historian, 
make  answer,  no.  Circumstances  began  to  point  to  him 
as  the  guilty  man,  and  as  the  net  had  begun  to  close 
about  him  he  fled,  and  since  officers  of  justice  had  sought 
him  far  and  wide.  So  much  David  knew,  and  it  goes 
without  saying,  so  much  David  told. 

If  it  be  wondered  how  David,  even  with  his  pen- 
chant for  news,  had  learned  so  much,  it  may  be  added 
that  he  always  insisted  that  he  noticed  a  queer  look 
pass  over  the  faces  of  the  strangers  the  minute  they  laid 
eyes  on  Barnolde,  and  he  'd  kept  his  eyes  on  them, 

231 


DOROTHY 

a-saying  to  himself,  "Would  n't  it  be  odd,  now,  if  the 
Reverend  Mr.  Barnolde  should  turn  out  to  be  the 
gentlemanly  chap  they  was  a-lookin'  for." 

'Of  course,  he  was  among  the  first  to  note  the  dis- 
turbance at  the  door,  and  the  first  to  arrive  on  the  scene. 
During  their  talk  with  him  on  the  tavern  porch  the  men 
had  readily  sized  him  up  as  to  his  honesty,  so  at  a  sign 
from  them  he  had  gravely  fallen  in  line,  and  had  thus 
semi-officially  seen  Barnolde  placed  in  a  cell  to  await 
the  train  which  would  bear  him  back  to  justice,  and 
out  of  this  story. 

The  judge  was  now  inclined  to  throw  the  case  out 

of  court;  but  Lawyer  C insisted  that  it  be  heard 

to  the  end;  for  although  Barnolde  (as  the  people  still 
called  him)  might  be  a  villain,  he  might  still  be  the 
owner  of  the  Sumner  estate. 

So  all  evidence  was  introduced  as  planned,  even  to 
the  chance  leaf  of  foolscap,  with  its  random  words  sup- 
plemented by  the  sworn  testimony  of  an  expert  that  the 
writing  was  Barnolde's  own  and  the  codicil  the  work 
of  that  miscreant. 

Finally  Lawyer  C wove  together  in  a  speech, 

which  was  listened  to  with  hushed  attention,  the  whole 
weird  tale. 

The  opposing  counsel  made  no  reply,  for  the  very 
good  reason  that  he  had  already  left  the  village,  more 
chagrined  than  he  had  ever  been  in  all  his  shameless 
life. 

There  had  also  been  some  hurried  packing  down  in 
Kenge's  office.  In  some  manner  it  had  been  borne  in 
232 


HUNTED— FOUND 

on  that  gentleman's  mind  that  Middletown  was  a  very 
poor  location  from  a  professional  point  of  view,  and  it 
would  be  as  well  if  he  were  to  leave  before  the  people 
contested  his  right  to  do  so. 

It  is  the  privilege  of  juries  to  serve  surprises.  The 
present  proved  no  exception,  for  on  the  ,slip  handed 
the  judge  were  the  words,  "We  find  that  Sarah  Gray- 
son,  cousin  of  the  deceased,  and  Dorothy  Sumner  are 
the  joint  heirs  to  the  Sumner  estate.  We  recommend 
that  they  make  their  own  division." 

Middletown  drew  its  breath,  and  then  declared 
"the  jury  is  right;"  then  began  to  picture  the  ovation 
Dorothy  would  receive  upon  her  return.  And  there 
was  no  small  disappointment  when  it  was  learned  that, 
"being  happy  and  contented  with  her  work,  she  pre- 
ferred to  remain." 

However,  this  was  lost  sight  of  in  the  announce- 
ment that  the  "twenty-acre  pasture,"  erstwhile  site  of 
the  visionary  "Home,"  had  been  given  as  a  location  for 
a  new  building  for  the  seminary,  more  and  more  a 
source  of  pride,  and  of  unconscious  culture  as  well,  to 
the  little  community. 

That  the  greatly  needed  building  might  not  be  slow 
in  coming,  Cousin  Sarah,  with  something  of  her  kins- 
man's generosity,  set  the  ball  rolling  with  a  generous 
subscription. 

Dorothy,  from  her  distance,  added  her  share  from 
that  which  was  now  legally  hers.  So  it  appeared  that, 
after  all,  he  that  was  dead  was  yet  to  live  in  countless 
blessings  on  many. 

233 


DOROTHY 

The  shuttle  in  the  life-web  of  the  little  town  in 
which  we  have  been  lingering  flies  faster  and  faster. 
As  we  have  left  Dorothy,  so  we  must  leave  her  home. 

Communities,  like  individuals,  have  their  character- 
istics. Some  are  quick  to  discover  and  take  advantage 
of  that  "tide  which,  taken  at  the  flood,  leads  on  to  for- 
tune." 

At  this  juncture  in  the  life  of  Middletown  there 
are  those  who  maintain  that  this  last  is  peculiarly  a 
trait  of  the  growing  town,  and  that  even  so  small  a 
space  of  time  as  a  mere  five  years  will  witness  a  won- 
derful change. 

We  bide  our  time.  Perhaps  we  shall  see  not  only 
this,  but  the  outcome  of  certain  other  matters  that  con- 
cern us  even  more. 


234 


PART  II 

"The  lives  which  seem  so  poor,  so  low. 

The  hearts,  which  are  so  cramped  and  dull; 
The  baffled  hopes,  the  impulse  slow, 
Thou  takest,  touches!  all,  and  lo ! 
They  blossom  to  the  beautiful." 

—SUSAN  COOLJDGE. 


Part  H 

CHAPTER  XXV. 
AFTER  FIVE  YEARS-A  RESUME 

THE  hurrying  years  had  been,  according  to  proph- 
ecy, rich  in  events  for  Middletown.  The  most  san- 
guine of  its  friends  had  not  hoped  so  much. 

Besides  the  honor  of  a  place  on  the  map  of  the 
State,  it  had  attained  to  special  mention  as  a  manufac- 
turing point  of  importance.  This  last  had  its  begin- 
ning in  that  fragment  of  rock  which,  it  will  be  recalled, 
Robert  Stirling  had,  one  long-ago  day,  torn  savagely 
from  its  resting-place  of  the  centuries.  The  assay  had 
shown  that  the  geological  eye  of  the  "circuit  preacher" 
had  not  been  at  fault;  it  being  rich  in  the  silicates  of 
aluminum  and  lime,  and,  on  being  treated  by  the  same 
processes  with  which  the  "preacher"  had  been  familiar, 
yielded  a  cement  equal  in  quality. 

There  is  always  unemployed  capital  awaiting  profit- 
able investment;  so,  shortly  following  the  analysis,  the 
young  town,  already  used  to  surprises,  heard  without  a 
tremor  that  a  company  had  been  organized  to  manufac- 
ture the  cement,  that  a  building  for  the  purpose  would 
at  once  be  erected,  and  machinery  put  in  place,  first  for 
crushing  the  plentiful  rock,  and  also  for  the  further  pro- 

237 


DOROTHY 

cesses  required ;  as  a  consequence,  each  spur  of  the  once 
despised  "Knobs"  had  an  emphatic  and  growing  mone- 
tary value. 

To  not  an  owner  of  any  one  of  these  rocky,  pine- 
covered  acres  was  this  happy  change  so  welcome  as  to 
Robert  Stirling.  From  that  day  when,  fresh  from  the 
fastnesses  of  these  same  hills,  he  had  stood  in  the  little, 
improvised  schoolroom,  in  undisguised  admiration  be- 
fore the  first  skeleton  he  had  seen,  he  had  known  but 
one  ambition,  that  being  to  familiarize  himself  with  the 
human  body,  even  as  a  jeweler  is  familiar  with  a  watch, 
and  to  make  himself  master  of  its  diseases. 

The  welcome  change  in  values  brought  him  the 
necessary  funds  for  carrying  out  this  desire ;  so  for  three 
out  of  the  five  years  that  have  elapsed  in  the  history  of 
Middletown  he  has  been  a  student  at  a  medical  college. 
The  little  mother  had  accompanied  him.  He  was  her 
all,  and  there  was  no  reason  why  they  should  be  sepa- 
rated. A  few  rooms  had  been  secured,  and  in  these  she 
made  a  home  for  him,  whom,  in  her  secret  mother  pride, 
she  sometimes  called  "her  gift  to  the  world." 

Before  leaving  the  village  (though  perhaps  it  were 
better  to  say  city)  Robert  had  gone  on  a  special  errand 
to  the  "Beeches,"  and  having  sought  out  Aunt  Violet, 
said  to  her  jestingly:  "Auntie,  I  am  going  away.  Cheer 
up ;  your  'rheumatics'  will  have  to  surrender,  for,  once 
through  with  my  studies,  I  am  coming  back,  and  I  shall 
be  able  to  cure  every  ill  but  poverty;  and  the  people 
will  be  so  well  there  will  be  little  of  that.  But  in  the 
meantime  I  have  a  favor  to  ask  of  you." 

Aunt  Violet  was  at  once  all  attention,  for  this  broad- 

238 


AFTER  FIVE  YEARS— A  RESUME 

shouldered  young  man  had  grown  next  in  favor  "to 
her  own  chile,  Marsa  Clay." 

"Mother  is  going  with  me,"  he  continued.  "Mis- 
tress Millicent  understands  her  affection  for  our  old 
chest  of  drawers ;  we  can  not  conveniently  take  it  with 
us" — a  reminiscent  smile  hovered  about  his  mouth ;  he 
was  recalling  its  trip  northward — "will  you  not  under- 
take to  stow  it  away  for  us  where  it  will  not  be  in  the 
way,  and  yet  can  be  cared  for?" 

Aunt  Violet  was,  of  course,  all  complaisance;  but 
it  was  "Mis'  Millicent"  that,  hearing  of  the  proffered 
request,  gave  the  beautiful  old  bit  of  furniture  a  corner 
in  her  own  room,  and  took  it  as  her  preferred  task  to 
see  that  its  satiny  surface  lost  none  of  its  polish. 

The  promised  "new  building"  for  the  growing  semi- 
nary had  been  early  completed,  and  the  "pasture," 
now  set  with  trees  and  laid  out  in  walks,  made 
an  ideal  campus.  Throngs  of  students  now  came,  not 
only  from  the  surrounding  country,  but  from  more  dis- 
tant parts  of  the  State.  The  Professor,  as  he  was  still 
called,  no  longer  taught,  but  he  would  never  allow  him- 
self to  become  so  busy  that  he  could  not  counsel,  could 
not  direct. 

Upon  the  erection  of  the  building  and  its  opening 
to  students,  a  new  question  had  presented  itself,  that 
being  to  provide  a  home  for  the  many  young  men  who 
thronged  its  halls. 

After  a  long  conversation  between  Cousin  Sarah 
and  Professor  Williamson,  this  question  had  a  happy 
solution.  Since  Dorothy's  going  life  had  proven  for 
her  very  lonely,  as  the  Professor  knew.  She  was  in- 

239 


DOROTHY 

duced  to  return  to  Middletown,  and  soon  the  hospitable 
doors  of  the  old  "Sumner  home"  itself  were  enlarged 
and  remodeled,  and  were  opened  to  young  men  in  at- 
tendance at  the  seminary. 

Not  all  actual  mothers  of  children  are  mothers  at 
heart,  and,  conversely,  many  a  woman  upon  whose 
breast  no  cooing  babe  has  lain,  or  about  whose  brood- 
ing face  no  aimless  baby  hand  has  strayed,  is  strong  in 
mother  love. 

The  Professor,  quick  to  grasp  heart  secrets,  had 
caught  the  truth  that  "denied  motherhood"  had  been 
the  mainspring  of  this  woman's  entire  life.  Though 
not  given  to  demonstration,  her  heart  knew  a  tender- 
ness that  brooded  over  and  found  its  happiness  in  caring 
for  the  sick,  the  helpless,  the  young. 

Happy  the  students  to  whom  she  had  been  per- 
suaded to  minister!  Their  hopes,  their  aims,  their  am- 
bitions, became  her  own.  The  townspeople  still  called 
her  "Cousin  Sarah;"  but  one  day,  as  she  stood  by  a  bed, 
wringing  out  hot  flannels  and  tucking  them  around  the 
ailing  throat  of  a  boy,  who  was  fighting  an  attack  of 
tonsilitis,  he  looked  into  her  face,  and  whispered  the 
words,  "Mother  Sarah."  The  fitness  of  the  name  was 
so  apparent  from  that  hour,  she  became  "Mother"  to 
the  entire  body  of  students,  whether  they  were  fortu- 
nate enough  or  not  to  come  under  her  immediate  care. 

In  the  early  days  of  this,  her  :econd  occupancy  of 
the  Sumner  home,  Mrs.  David  dropped  in  frequently  as 
"day  helper,"  not,  however,  without  an  awesome  air; 
for  the  memory  of  "the  Honorable  Jeremiah's"  undoing 
was  yet  a  favorite  one  with  David,  who  was  wont  to 
240 


AFTER  FIVE  YEARS— A  RESUMfi 

declare,  "I  tell  you  there  's  spunk  there,  clear  spunk," 
adding  warningly,  "Better  be  careful  how  you  rile  her!" 
But  the  two  got  on  amicably,  and  out  of  the  partner- 
ship (for  It  amounted  to  that)  an  unexpected  result 
flowed. 

Cousin  Sarah  was  neat,  capable,  a  "model"  house- 
wife; Mrs.  David  was,  by  common  consent,  "slack;" 
but  did  ever  "slackness"  meet  thrift  that  it  did  not  hide 
its  head  abashed  ?  Seeing  Cousin  Sarah's  orderly  habits, 
Mrs.  David  began  unconsciously  to  adopt  them,  and 
her  own  home  insensibly  took  on  greater  cheer. 

Her  youngest  child,  on  the  score  of  convenience, 
usually  accompanied  her  when  she  was  "helping."  On 
one  such  occasion  she  came  suddenly  upon  Cousin  Sarah 
carefully  washing  and  scrubbing  the  silent  child,  who 
was  too  overawed  to  remonstrate.  The  mother  was 
herself  surprised  at  the  "well-favored"  child  that  came 
out  of  the  ordeal.  The  object  lesson  did  not  need  repe- 
tition. 

At  another  time,  being  summoned  to  her  daily  work, 
she  found  her  employer  in  the  sewing-room,  with  flan- 
nels and  stout  ginghams  before  her.  Wondering,  she 
looked  at  the  silent  woman  for  an  explanation.  "We 
will  make  your  little  folks  some  warm  clothes  to-day," 
was  the  laconic  reply. 

The  plain  woman  "directing  all  this  helping"  would 
no  doubt  have  been  surprised  had  she  known  that  an- 
other generation  would  adopt  practically  the  same  meth- 
ods, but  give  them  the  higher  sounding  name  of  "Settle- 
ment work." 

On  a  certain  morning  Mrs.  David  came  to  her  day's 
16  241 


DOROTHY 

duties,  very  much  "out"  with  her  husband,  though  this 
was  by  no  means  unusual.  During  the  forenoon  (per- 
haps with  a  dim  notion  of  making  peace)  that  individ- 
ual shambled  into  the  immaculate  kitchen,  and  made  as 
if  he  would  warm  himself  by  the  hospitable  stove. 
Presently  he  addressed  a  casual  remark  to  his  wife,  busy 
near  by,  but  his  overtures  were  met  by  a  sniff  of  con- 
tempt. Cousin  Sarah  heard,  and  drew  her  lips  together 
ominously,  the  little  gray  knot  of  hair  on  the  back  of 
her  head  quivering  visibly.  Clearly  its  owner  was  dis- 
turbed. David  was  quick  to  observe  this;  fearing  the 
result  he  soon  slunk  away.  No  sooner  was  he  gone 
than  Cousin  Sarah  began  to  unburden  herself: 

"You  ought  not  to  have  answered  David  that  way. 
That's  no  way  to  help,  and  I  tell  you  a  wife's  main 
business,  whatever  kind  of  man  she  has  got,  is  to  help. 
Why,  God  took  pains  to  say  in  the  very  start,  when  he 
set  about  making  a  woman,  that  He  was  just  merely 
making  a  'help  mate'  for  the  man  He  had  been  busy 
with." 

"But  He  never  done  it,"  interrupted  Mrs.  David, 
who  knew  her  Bible  quite  as. well  as  she  that  was  re- 
proving, "till  He  'd  found  out  that  His  precious  'man' 
was  a-goin'  to  be  a  plumb  failure  unless  something  was 
done  for  him.  And  that 's  what  more  'n  half  the  men 
are,  to  this  day." 

"I  know  David  tries  you,"  Cousin  Sarah  responded, 
more  gently.  "I  know  he  likes  to  talk  better  'n  he 
likes  to  work;  but,  bless  you!  he  is  not  the  only  one 
that 's  troubled  that  way.  But  he  is  not  all  bad. 
He  's  got  a  good  heart ;  besides  he  's  got  sense,  and  I 
242 


AFTER  FIVE  YEARS— A  RESUM& 

tell  you  the  longer  I  live  the  more  I  see,  real  sense  is 
scarce!  Seems  to  me  it  would  be  a  good  plan,  seeing 
as  you  and  he  has  got  to  put  up  with  each  other,  that, 
as  everything  else  around  little  old  Middletown  is 
a-picking  up — 'improving,'  they  call  it — that  you  might 
help  David  ketch  the  fever." 

It  was  the  longest  speech  Cousin  Sarah  had  ever 
made,  and  she  felt  a  little  ashamed  at  its  close.  She 
would  have  been  surprised,  however,  had  she  known 
how  closely  her  chance  shot  had  struck  the  source  of 
contention  between  David  and  his  wife.  The  truth 
was,  he  had  that  morning  confided  to  her  a  cherished 
ambition  and  she  had  met  the  advance,  not  with  sym- 
pathy, but  ridicule.  He  had  retaliated  with  bitter 
words,  and  so  the  trouble  had  grown. 

She  was  so  unusually  quiet  as  she  went  about  her 
tasks  through  the  day,  that  Cousin  Sarah  was  sure  she 
had  hopelessly  offended  her ;  but  such  was  by  no  means 
the  case. 

That  night,  after  the  children  were  safely  in  bed, 
Mrs.  David  still  lingered.  Had  her  husband  been  at 
all  "observing,"  he  must  have  suspected  that  something 
unusual  was  agitating  the  mind  of  his  spouse,  who  lin- 
gered an  unaccountable  time,  about  the  little  stove. 
Finally  she  arose  and  came  closer  to  where  he  sat. 
David  started  "  'most  out  of  his  boots"  as  a  gentle  hand 
touched  his  shoulder,  and  a  voice,  from  which  all  raspi- 
ness  had  vanished,  said,  "David,  I  have  thought  it  all 
over,  and  I — I  guess  I  was  wrong,  and  I  believe,  if  I 
were  you,  I  'd  try;"  adding,  "It  wouldn't  hurt  noth- 
ing, noway." 

243 


DOROTHY 

A  long,  earnest  conversation  followed,  and  at  its 
close  two  hearts  were  closer  together  than  they  had 
been  since  that  far-away  blissful  "moon"  of  time, 
much  laughed  at  by  smart  paragraphers,  yet  given  to 
all,  great  and  humble  alike,  to  whisper  of  a  lost  Eden 
and  of  a  coming  Paradise. 

The  children  looked  on  in  wonder  the  next  morn- 
ing, for  the  father  did  not  need  to  be  called;  even  the 
surprised  stove  glowed  in  unusual  heat  at  his  unwonted 
ministrations. 

A  few  hours  later  he  was  nervously  crossing  the 
woodland,  and  then,  hat  in  hand — as  we  have  seen  him 
once  before — he  was  knocking  at  the  door  of  the 
"Beeches."  Once  more  the  Professor  shows  him  into 
the  library,  and  once  more  David  asks  advice,  this  time 
about  a  matter  wholly  personal. 

The  truth  is  (though  David  will  not  tell  it  all), 
since  that  hour  when  he  walked  in  semi-official  capacity 
by  the  side  of  the  two  officers,  and  had  seen  the  key 
turned  upon  Barnolde,  he  had  himself  yearned  to  exe- 
cute that  kind  of  authority.  His  comprehensive  eye 
took  in  approvingly  each  detail  of  the  spick-and-span 
new  jail,  as  well  as  the  comfortable  "sheriff's  home" 
near-by,  and  he  said  to  himself,  even  in  that  moment, 
"Ah!  if  I  were  only  master  here!"  and  it  was  this 
aspiration  he  was  coming  to  lay  before  the  Professor. 
If  that  true  friend  were  to  pronounce  him  presumptu- 
ous— well,  he  would  be  disappointed,  but  he  would  say 
no  more;  but  if  he  should  approve — why,  they  were 
about  nominating  a  sheriff,  and  he  would  "try  to  see 
what  could  be  done." 

244 


AFTER  FIVE  YEARS— A  RESUME 

The  Professor  listened,  not  only  patiently  but  with 
interest,  looking  the  political  aspirant  over  from  the 
heavy  shock  of  long  hair  down  to  the  pair  of  boots 
w-holly  innocent  of  polish,  a  smile  meanwhile  hovering 
about  his  mobile  lips,  "Yes,  why  not?"  he  was  saying 
to  himself.  There  were  certain  fundamental  qualities 
necessary  for  one  who  would  undertake  a  public  trust ; 
such  as  honor,  honesty,  and  courage.  Certainly  David 
Johnson  lacked  in  none  of  these.  As  for  those  other 
supposed  essentials,  he  was  probably  as  rich  in  these 
as  any  who  might  be  selected ;  for  the  location  of  the 
court-house  had  called  into  existence  a  whole  brood  of 
petty  office-seekers. 

"Why,  yes,"  David  as  in  a  dream  heard  him  say, 
"that  would  be  fine;  I  can  see  no  objections  whatever;" 
adding  yet  more  kindly,  "If  you  would  like,  I  will 
speak  to  Squire  Hubbard  myself." 

He  did  speak  to  the  Squire,  and  the  Squire,  quite 
pleased  with  the  suggestion,  spoke  to  a  few  others  deep 
in  political  secrets. 

There  must  have  been  effectual  work  done ;  for  the 
nominating  convention  was  but  a  few  days  off,  and 
when  it  had  come  and  gone,  and  the  public  turned  to 
the  ticket  at  the  proper  place,  they  read,  "For  Sheriff — 
David  Johnson."  One  ambition  had  been  gratified; 
David  in  his  heart  confessed  another,  that  being  to 
make  his  majority  the  largest  any  candidate  in  "Old 
Winfield"  had  ever  known. 

As  a  preliminary  to  that  end  he  mapped  out  for 
himself  an  "Itinerary"  that  included  each  cross-roads, 
even  each  farm-house  in  the  county;  nor  did  he  despise 
245 


DOROTHY 

to  an  extent  the  furbishings  of  the  tailor,  and,  with 
the  new  purpose  that  shone  in  his  eyes  and  lent  spring 
to  his  limbs,  he  seemed  at  last  to  have  come  into  his 
own. 

Sometimes  he  "dropped"  into  a  farm-house  sus- 
piciously near  the  noon  hour,  and  the  good  wife,  hav- 
ing been  busy  with  her  work,  would  offer  apology  per- 
haps for  the  appearance  of  her  children.  He  would 
wave  her  off  with  a  knowing  and  friendly  air:  "Never 
mind,  never  mind.  Why,  bless  you,  we  Ve  regular 
'stairsteps'  at  home.  Can't  tell  me  anything  about 
children."  He  had  such  a  "taking  way"  with  the  little 
folks,  could  tell  such  wonderful  stories,  and,  if  occa- 
sion offered,  could  gently  trot  the  most  refractory  off 
to  slumberland,  that  more  than  one  tired  woman 
thought  enviously  of  Mrs.  Johnson  and  of  her  "bless- 
ings !" 

He  could  not  travel  so  far  that  the  "Sumner  will" 
was  not  yet  a  favorite  topic  for  conversation,  nor  so  far 
but  that  his  own  connection  with  the  matter  was 
known.  Of  course,  he  had  to  tell  the  story  all  over 
each  time,  adding  little  quips  and  special  settings,  until 
it  at  length  crystallized  into  a  tale  that  was  listened 
to  with  the  most  absorbing  interest,  and  some  way  left 
the  impression  (although,  of  course,  David  did  not  so 
intend)  that  the  narrator  was  very  much  of  a  hero. 

Though  these  are  little  vanities  over  which  we  may 
smile,  his  "canvass"  was  not  altogether  selfish.  Occa- 
sionally he  would  say  to  a  father,  "Fine  son  that  of 
yours,"  or  "Splendid  girl  that;"  "You  ought  to  send 
them  in  to  our  school ;"  and  the  advice  was  not  inf re- 
246 


AFTER  FIVE  YEARS— A  RESUME 

quently  taken.  And  thus  he  went  from  house  to 
house,  and  what  with  his  friendly,  helpful  ways,  his 
wise  and  astute  winks  when  matters  of  national  im- 
portance were  mentioned,  there  had  never  been  so  pop- 
ular a  candidate.  Of  course  he  was  elected,  and  by 
his  coveted  majority. 

All  this  occurred  in  the  early  part  of  that  period 
of  time  we  are  considering.  He  filled  out  the  term 
for  which  he  was  elected  with  such  success  that  he  was 
chosen  to  succeed  himself,  and  at  the  reopening  of  this 
story  he  is  an  acknowledged  "political  possibility." 

As  for  Mrs.  David:  No  longer  harassed  by  that 
wearisome  struggle  to  "make  both  ends  meet,"  which, 
if  too  long  continued,  turns  the  honey  of  life  into 
myrrh ;  knowing,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  a  com- 
fortable home;  remembering,  too,  Cousin  Sarah's  force- 
ful notions  of  wifely  responsibility, — she  became  a 
changed  woman.  True,  so  long  as  she  lived  she  would 
probably  consider  it  her  duty  at  times  to  let  "David 
know  what  was  what;"  but  on  such  occasions  that  in- 
dividual would  shrug  his  shoulders,  and,  if  one  of  the 
older  children  were  present,  would  say  with  a  wink, 
"Water  on  a  duck's  back  never  hurts." 

At  last  "the  Johnsons"  had  gotten  on  a  plane  of 
mutual  understanding. 

It  had  been  a  matter  of  surprise  to  "the  William- 
sons" themselves  that  they  still  lingered,  when  all  ex- 
cuse for  lingering  was  gone,  in  this  that  had  once  been 
their  enforced  home. 

The  truth  was  that,  having  once  known  the  quiet 
of  "the  Beeches,"  after  having  gotten  on  speaking  terms 

247 


DOROTHY 

with  the  birds  that  nestled  in  their  boughs,  and  with 
the  squirrels  that  scampered  along  the  rails,  each  felt 
loath  to  return  to  the  hurrying  world. 

Nor  was  that  world  the  loser,  for  a  certain  pen 
was  never  long  idle,  and  from  this  vantage  spot  he 
who  guided  it  was,  with  the  flight  of  the  years,  becom- 
ing more  and  more  a  molder  of  public  thought. 

Perhaps  there  was  yet  another  reason  for  lingering, 
wholly  unsuspected  by  the  gracious,  kindly  man. 

Life  holds  no  greater  happiness  than  the  conscious- 
ness that,  under  one's  personal  touch,  a  single  life  is 
unfolding,  is  surely  and  steadily  coming  up  and  on 
to  the  highest  plane  possible  for  that  life. 

If  this  be  true  of  a  single  life,  how  great,  then, 
the  satisfaction  of  seeing  an  entire  community  rise  to 
higher  ideals,  and  become  more  and  more  a  potent 
factor  in  Church  and  State,  and  to  carry  about  in  the 
heart  the  consciousness  that  the  awakening  touch  has, 
under  God,  been  given  by  one's  own  hand ! 

The  unusual  doctrine  has  been  enunciated  that 
one's  love  to  another  is  based  upon  what  we  do  or  are 
to  them ;  that  is,  upon  what  they  receive  from  us,  rather 
than  what  we  receive  from  them. 

\Vith  such  an  unit  of  measurement,  great  might 
have  been  the  love  of  this  scholarly  man  for  this  self- 
same community. 

If  Middletown  has  known  such  changes,  and  as 
this  is  a  dual  story,  we  turn  again  to  Camp  Sunny 
Slope;  for  does  not  that  camp  hold  Dorothy — and 
MacByrne? 

248 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 
ONCE  MORE  AT  SUNNY  SLOPE 

IF  the  Intervening  years  have  been  rich  in  develop- 
ment for  Middletown,  they  have  been  none  the  less 
so  for  the  Woods  and  the  "Woods  Preacher." 

First,  they  have  witnessed  the  cutting  of  the  greater 
part  of  the  heavy  timber.  Indeed,  had  it  not  been  for 
the  extension  of  the  once  much  criticised  "flume," 
which  had  given  access  to  the  denser  timber  beyond, 
Camp  Sunny  Slope  must,  before  the  reopening  of  this 
story,  have  been  abandoned.  As  matters  now  stood, 
before  another  season  should  open,  the  'shanties,"  to- 
gether with  Bark  Cottage  and  the  chapel,  were  to  be 
removed  to  the  still  heavily  wooded  region  which  lay 
beyond  a  chain  of  small  lakes  on  the  edge  of  the  woods, 
among  which  one  known  as  "Silver"  was  the  largest. 

As  for  the  "preacher,"  the  year's  choicest  gift  to 
him  had  been  a  rare  peace  of  soul,  and  an  intense  love 
for  his  work.  The  fact  that  he  had  once  found  it  hard 
to  be  reconciled  to  what  he  believed  an  injustice  in 
appointment  seemed  a  far-away  and  shadowy  dream. 

Bark  Cottage  had  fulfilled  its  mission  of  a  home 

for  the  lonely  worker,  and  more.    The  warm  glow  of 

its  log  fires,  the  hearty  welcome  to  its  writing-table, 

and,  above  all,  the  bed  provided  for  the  chance  sick, 

249 


DOROTHY 

had  proven,  each  and  all,  an  open  door  to  the  hearts 
of  the  woodsmen. 

Yet  it  was  well  understood  that  the  Cottage  was 
not,  in  a  sense,  a  public  institution.  In  such  a  case  it 
must  have  lost  its  home  qualities.  But  as  Wilson  had 
come  in  the  shadows  of  night  to  be  shown  the  way  to 
a  better  life,  so  it  was  known  that  if  a  man  were  in 
trouble  of  any  kind,  there  was  at  the  Cottage  a  kindly 
ear  that  would  listen,  and  a  clear  brain  ready  to  ad- 
vise. 

Not  far  away  stood  the  little  chapel  provided  by 
the  generosity  of  Mr.  Stuart,  and  was  as  rustic  as  the 
woods  themselves,  and  so  constructed  that  when  the 
camp  should  be  removed  it  could  be  shifted  as  easily 
as  the  "shanties." 

In  this,  since  its  building,  MacByrne,  with  the 
regularity  of  each  recurring  Sabbath,  had  preached  the 
Gospel  with  the  same  simplicity  and  vigor  that  had 
characterized  his  earlier  ministry. 

His  theories  were  few.  First,  there  was  the  prom- 
ise, "My  Word  shall  not  return  unto  Me  void."  This 
he  coupled  in  his  mind  with  his  own  (not  to  be  put 
aside)  "commission"  to  preach  that  same  Word.  He 
also  read  that  this  "Gospel"  was  set  for  the  "healing 
of  the  nations."  This  he  did  not  question,  nor  that  it 
was  particularly  "set"  for  the  "healing  of  those  im- 
mediately about  him;"  therefore  the  task  of  securing 
each  individual's  acceptance  of  offered  mercy  became 
his  idea  of  present  duty. 

Such  "faith"  coupled  with  such  "works"  has  a 
given  result,  whether  the  holder  live  in  city  or  in 
250 


ONCE  MORE  AT  SUNNY  SLOPE 

woods;  so,  although  the  years  had  seen  changes  in  the 
personnel  of  the  "camp,"  they  had  seen,  too,  a  change 
in  morals  amounting  to  a  revolution,  and  this  without 
beating  of  trumpets  or  flourish  of  announcement.  Men 
who  had  themselves  found  the  source  of  a  pure  life 
became  the  custodians  of  camp  morals — we  are  but 
beginning  to  succeed,  when  we  catch  the  secret  of  dupli- 
cating ourselves — and  in  the  work  of  these  self-im- 
posed '"custodians,"  MacByrne's  own  efforts  were  du- 
plicated many  times.  On  other  days  than  the  Sabbath 
the  chapel  became  a  place  of  common  meeting. 

Princess,  still  beautiful,  and  upon  whom  the  years 
sat  lightly,  had  become  used  to  the  shadows  of  the 
woods.  She  was  still  her  master's  "close  friend." 
They  had  many  a  canter  along  the  winding  forest 
ways,  and  to  and  from  "The  Mills."  She  was  the 
"pride  of  the  woods,"  and  not  a  man  but  was  ready, 
at  her  childish  whinny,  with  caressing  and  sympathetic 
stroll. 

The  surprise  of  the  years  for  MacByrne  had  been 
the  coming  of  Dorothy.  He  had  sat  for  an  entire 
day  aghast  at  the  news,  gravely  questioning  the  wis- 
dom of  that  decision  which  was  sending  her  north- 
ward. Troubled  as  he  was  at  the  thought  of  her  pres- 
ence at  the  border  of  the  Wood,  he  was  strongly 
tempted  to  send  a  counter-message. 

The  "Stuarts"  were  now  his  close  friends.  In  this 
crisis  he  turned  to  them  for  advice,  acquainting  them 
not  only  with  her  coming,  but  with  her  unusual  history. 

Their  interest  was  at  once  aroused,  and,  being  a 
childless  couple,  they  insisted  upon  receiving  her  into 
2SI 


DOROTHY 

their  home.  The  home,  while  in  a  sense  temporary, 
would  be  permanent  while  the  cutting  of  the  forests 
continued.  With  this  he  was  quite  content. 

As  the  day  for  her  arrival  drew  near,  MacByrne 
quite  lost  his  usual  calm.  Would  she  make  the  long 
journey  safely?  Ought  he  not  to  have  arranged  to 
meet  her  half  way  and  give  her  his  protection  on  the 
journey?  But  "The  Mills,"  as  the  creditable  town 
that  had  sprung  up  about  the  mills  was  called,  was  no 
longer  "out  of  the  world."  For  an  entire  season  the 
new  "road"  had  been  carrying  passengers  and  traffic 
to  its  doors  and  beyond;  and  one  day  Dorothy,  with- 
out hurt  or  mishap,  with  her  step  as  quick  as  of  yore, 
and  her  face  shining  with  the  joy  of  meeting,  stepped 
upon  the  little  platform. 

One  quick,  scrutinizing  glance,  and  this  old  and 
true  friend  saw  that  which  another  had  seen,  that  the 
"child"  was  forever  gone,  and  in  its  stead  stood  a 
strong,  resolute  young  woman,  competent  for  the  work 
for  which  she  had  come. 

If  one  can  imagine  the  joy  of  a  bit  of  heather, 
which,  having  known  confinement,  is  at  last  trans- 
planted to  its  native  downs,  then  one  may  guess  the 
avidity  with  which  this  young  soul  responded  to  the 
freedom  of  its  new  life. 

With  her  propensity  for  making  friends,  she  soon 
crept  into  the  hearts  of  "the  Stuarts,"  and  her  presence 
in  their  home  brought  the  sunshine  each  had  known  it 
lacked.  From  the  beginning  her  chosen  work  appealed 
to  her,  and  MacByrne  only  made  a  few  anxious  jour- 
252 


ONCE  MORE  AT  SUNNY  SLOPE 

neys  from  the  "Woods"  till  he  rested  easy  in  her  as- 
sured success. 

It  may  be  that  a  little  heart-communing,  held  dur- 
ing her  journey  northward,  had  been  of  practical  bene- 
fit. Her  eyes  had  fallen  upon  a  single  sentence  in  a 
book  that  had  been  given  her.  It  read,  "To  help  you 
attain  that  beauty  of  which  the  Lord  thought  when 
He  made  you."  She  laid  the  book  aside  and  mused  on 
the  unexpected  thought.  "Beauty  of  soul,  beauty  of 
character;"  she  repeated  the  phrase  again  and  again. 

"Of  course,  the  Lord  was  her  Creator."  She 
could  not  have  grown  up  a  member  of  John  Sumner's 
household  without  comprehending  that  fundamental 
truth.  But  had  He  taken  special  thought,  as  the  sen- 
tence implied,  in  her  particular  creation  ?  Had  He 
planned  a  beauty  of  soul  that  should  be  distinctly  her 
own? 

She  thought  long  and  earnestly.  Finally  she  said 
reverently,  "Yes,  I  do  believe  it,"  and  with  the  con- 
fession there  swept  over  her  a  wonderful  sense  of 
God's  Fatherhood.  Such  an  anchorage  is,  and  must 
continue  to  be,  the  foundation  of  the  highest  earthly 
success. 

She  had  not  been  in  her  new  home  a  year  when 
news  of  the  "trial"  (so  familiar  to  us)  reached  her, 
together  with  its  denouement.  She  had  not  until  then 
had  a  hint  of  the  efforts  of  her  friends  in  her  behalf, 
and  the  results  were  almost  past  belief, — first,  that  the 
old  home  was  again  hers,  and  that  Middletown  awaited 
and  expected  her  immediate  return. 

253 


DOROTHY 

MacByrne,  who  had  known  all  and  had  followed 
each  step  with  anxiety,  was  overjoyed  at  the  outcome. 
"Of  course  she  would  return;"  this  he  said,  refusing 
to  recognize  the  pain  which,  at  the  thought,  assailed 
his  heart.  "Yes,  he  should  miss  her,"  he  confessed. 
"But  it  were  better  for  Dorothy,  infinitely  better," 
he  said,  "that  she  should  have  the  care  of  the 
'Beeches ;'  "  and  then,  having  fortified  himself  for  the 
parting,  he  had  a  surprise;  for  Dorothy  emerged  from 
a  vigil  which  she  had  appointed  with  herself,  and  an- 
nounced that  she  would  remain  at  her  present  post  of 
duty. 

It  was  in  vain  that  MacBryne  urged,  and  the 
Stuarts  as  well.  She  shook  her  head.  "She  loved 
the  work,"  she  said,  "and  could  not  yield  it;"  adding, 
"it  was  out  of  the  question  for  her  to  return.  The  only 
regret  being,"  she  confessed,  "that  she  must  inflict  a 
second  disappointment  upon  Cousin  Sarah  and  the 
friends  at  the  'Beeches.'  " 

After  all,  none  need  have  wondered;  for  hardly  is 
there  a  bird  that,  having  tried  its  wings,  returns  will- 
ingly to  the  shelter  of  the  nest.  Besides,  in  her  vigil 
it  had  been  made  plain  to  her  that  what  she  called 
"home"  was  in  reality  that  no  longer,  but  was  a  place 
fraught  with  memories,  some  of  them  so  hateful  she 
longed  to  put  them  aside  forever;  and  besides — (but 
that  is  Dorothy's  own  secret ;  upon  it  we  have  no  right 
to  intrude. ) 

When  the  disappointing  message  had  started  on  its 
journey  to  Middletown,  MacByrne,  with  fatherly  au- 
thority, insisted  that,  inasmuch  as  all  hindrances  had 

254 


ONCE  MORE  AT  SUNNY  SLOPE 

vanished,  she  should  resume  the  education  which  had 
been  interrupted.  To  this  Dorothy  readily  agreed, 
only  stipulating  that  she  remain  with  her  present  work 
until  the  close  of  the  year. 

So,  for  three  years  out  of  the  five  we  have  been 
considering,  she  has  been  at  a  college  with  the  selection 
of  which  the  Professor  had  much  to  do.  These  years 
have  been  full  of  work ;  full,  too,  of  the  pleasures  and 
triumphs  incident  to  that  period  of  life.  The  earlier 
months  had  brought  a  few  desultory  letters  from  Clay 
Worthington,  who  still  cherished  pleasant  memories 
of  his  "comrade"  of  a  summer.  He  truly  rejoiced 
(as  he  told  her)  that  she  had  fallen  on  happier  days; 
for  like  another  (and  still  unlike)  he  had  from  his 
distance  taken  a  keen  interest  in  the  outcome  of  the 
contest  the  Professor  had  undertaken.  But  these  let- 
ters were  eventually  discontinued.  There  was  no  place, 
it  seelned,  in  the  dallying  life  of  the  young  man  for 
an  appreciation  of  the  strenuous  one  Dorothy  had 
planned  for  herself. 

Directly  upon  her  first  coming  to  The  Mills,  she 
set  herself  to  learn  something  of  her  far-away  relatives. 
To  her  surprise  she  found  that  two  sisters  of  her 
mother  still  lived  in  the  old  village  home,  in  the 
southernmost  part  of  Scotland.  They  had  grieved 
through  the  years  for  the  death  of  "bonny  sister  Mary," 
and  had  not  known  that  a  "wee  bairnie"  had  been  left 
motherless.  It  became  a  dream  of  the  young  girl  that 
one  day  she  might  visit  her  mother's  home. 

She  had  spent  each  of  the  summers  since  her  com- 
ing to  the  "Woods"  with  the  Stuarts,  either  at  their 

255 


DOROTHY 

Northern  home,  or  had  joined  them  in  summer  wan- 
derings. She  loved  best  the  little  town  that  already 
clustered  about  The  Mills,  and  the  deep  woodland  in 
whose  shadows  MacBryne  patiently  lived  his  life  of 
sacrifice.  Its  solitude  never  ceased  to  woo  her. 

It  was  not  strange  therefore — her  college  "course" 
being  duly  finished — that  she  should  return,  and  think 
to  find  her  happiness  (for  a  time)  in  that  same  school 
which  had  received  her  when  her  heart  was  heavy,  and 
there — now  that  the  last  "dropped  thread"  has  been 
caught  and  fastened  into  that  "woof"  which  will  allow 
no  further  break — we  meet  her  again. 

For  weeks  there  had  been  suppressed  excitement  at 
Bark  Cottage.  The  "Woods  Preacher"  was  indeed 
very  busy.  Not  a  day  of  the  springtime  that  had 
seemed  so  long  delayed  but  knew  a  special  duty.  There 
was  a  sort  of  a  shed  that  stood  back  of  the  Cottage,  in 
which  he  seemed  to  be  ever  at  work.  He  did  not 
always  work  alone,  for  not  a  man  in  the  entire 
"Woods"  but  counted  it  a  pleasure  to  help  in  any 
project  the  preacher  might  have  on  hand. 

That  at  present  he  was  making  preparations  for 
something  that  greatly  appealed  to  him,  none  who  saw 
him  bend  over  his  self-imposed  tasks  could  doubt. 
Finally  the  result  (in  not  the  full  meaning)  of  all 
this  extra  effort  was  in  evidence.  Four  strong  and 
well-made  canoes  stood  ready  to  be  carted  to  Silver 
Lake  as  soon  as  the  ice  that  still  bound  it  should  be 
broken.  Besides  these,  there  were  cozy  rustic  seats, 
to  be  nailed  into  place  later  on. 

.  256 


ONCE  MORE  AT  SUNNY  SLOPE 

Sometimes  the  worker,  it  was  thought,  looked  a  bit 
impatiently  at  the  lingering  banks  of  snow  that  refused 
to  melt.  Clearly  the  "Woods  Preacher"  was  living 
in  the  future  rather  than  in  the  icy  present. 

But  even  in  such  fastnesses  the  sun  is  finally  su- 
preme, and  one  day  the  word  passed  around  that  the 
ice  was  breaking  on  both  lake  and  river.  Then,  in  a 
day,  the  leaf-buds  began  to  swell,  and  in  another  a 
few  venturesome  scouts  from  the  bird-army  that  had 
begun  its  northward  flight  arrived,  and  announced 
their  presence  in  fearless  song.  At  this,  the  observant 
ones  noted,  the  preacher,  though  still  hurrying,  went 
to  his  work  with  snatches  of  song  upon  his  lips,  scarcely 
less  joyous  than  that  of  the  birds. 

This  excitement  extended  as  far  as  the  not  distant 
milling  town.  Not  a  single  pupil  of  the  well-beloved 
young  principal  but  recognized  its  presence,  and  smiled 
knowingly  as  she  sought  for  patches  of  green  among 
the  tufts  of  coarse  brown  grass. 

And  one  day,  when  some  one  brought  her  the  mes- 
sage "that  the  ice  had  broken  in  the  river  farther  up, 
and  that  great  rafts  of  logs  had  already  begun  their 
perilous  descending  journey,"  though  she  had  not  a 
dollar  at  stake,  she  clasped  her  hands  in  the  intensest 
joy.  To  her  the  freshet  meant  spring.  Spring  was 
but  the  fleeting  forerunner  of  summer;  and  for  sum- 
mer— ah!  for  summer! — had  there  not  been  cherished 
for  an  entire  year  a  most  delightful  plan  ? 

This  season  there  was  to  be  none  of  the  usual  moun- 
tain climbing  or  seaside  cottage  for  the  Williamsons. 
Instead,  they  were  to  summer  at  Bark  Cottage,  the 

17  257 


DOROTHY 

guests  of  MacByrne,  and  Dorothy  was  to  join  them! 
For  the  "Woods"  would  no  doubt  prove  an  ideal 
camping  spot;  and  there  still  lurked  within  their  shad- 
ows such  wild  animals  as  made  them  a  huntsman's, 
paradise. 

Silver  Lake,  a  couple  of  hours'  leisurely  drive  from 
the  camp,  was  an  admirable  spot  for  a  day's  outing, 
should  the  camp  prove  irksome,  while  the  canoes  that, 
now  safely  moored  at  the  water's  edge,  hinted  of  hours 
of  lazy  boating,  or  of  successful  fishing,  if  the  occupant 
preferred. 

Little  wonder  that  each  of  the  "exiles,"  as  they 
sometimes  called  themselves,  found  the  intervening  days 
long! 

Now  that  the  years  had  passed,  looking  back  on 
them,  it  seemed  strange  to  Dorothy  that  she  had  not 
revisited  Middletown ;  but  each  day  had  been  too  full 
of  work,  she  told  herself;  but  now  that  she  was  about 
to  look  in  the  faces  of  those  who  had  been  so  dear,  she 
was  in  an  ecstasy  of  anticipation. 

If  there  was  excitement  in  the  "Woods,"  there  was 
none  the  less  so  at  the  "Beeches."  Aunt  Violet  was, 
in  these  rapidly  disappearing  days  of  preparation,  a 
very  repository  of  responsibilities,  though  not,  as  of 
old,  the  main  source  of  dependence;  for  during  the 
years  a  bright  young  girl  of  her  own  race  had  been 
installed  as  helper. 

At  first  Violet  greatly  demurred.  "She  knowed 
dem  triflin'  gals,"  and  would  have  none  of  them;  but 
on  the  proposed  change  "Mis'  Millicent"  was  firm;  so 
presently  "Liza,"  directly  from  the  South,  and  the 

258 


ONCE  MORE  AT  SUNNY  SLOPE 

daughter  of  an  old  house  servant,  became  a  fixture, 
and  at  the  same  time  the  elder  woman's  "  'sponsibility." 
"  'Pears  like  I  have  to  keep  a-tellin'  and  a-talkin'  all 
the  time,"  she  complained ;  but  her  mistress  noted  with 
secret  satisfaction  that,  nevertheless,  she  came  to  spend 
more  and  still  more  time  in  the  big  arm-chair  that  had 
been  placed  in  the  sunny  southern  window  for  her 
especial  comfort. 

But,  now  that  "Mis'  Millicent  and  Marsa  Pro- 
fessah  was  going  away,  of  course,  she  must  done  tend 
to  everything."  Not  only  must  "Liza"  be  made  to  do 
her  whole  duty,  but  she  planned  for  herself  the  still 
harder  task  of  seeing  to  it  that  "dem  triflin'  white 
men,"  that  "farmed"  the  little  place  under  the  easy 
surveillance  of  the  "Master,"  "did  n't  set  forever  on 
the  rail-fence  a-whittlin'."  So  Master  and  Mistress 
made  ready  for  their  journey,  perhaps  with  a  smile  at 
Violet's  anxiety,  but  wonderfully  free  from  care,  know- 
ing that  not  a  detail  of  the  home  would  escape  the 
watchful  eye  of  her  who  was  friend  as  well  as  servant. 

As  they  were  about  starting,  a  rumor  which  had 
been  born  in  the  Southland  and  had  daily  gathered  to 
itself  new  strength,  now  spread  over  the  entire  country 
as  a  dire  certainty:  "Yellow  fever" — that  dreaded 
scourge  that  in  the  past  had,  with  its  foul  breath, 
turned  whole  cities  into  charnel-houses — had  again 
made  its  appearance,  and  in  so  violent  a  form  that  those 
best  acquainted  with  the  situation  declared  nothing 
could  stay  its  ravages. 

The  travelers  hesitated,  their  dearest  friends  were 
in  the  South;  but  realizing  that,  should  they  remain, 

2S9 


DOROTHY 

they  would  still  be  unable  to  help,  they  started.  They 
could  not,  they  said,  disappoint  those  who  waited — 
nor  yet  themselves. 

The  last  touch  had  been  given,  and  "Bark  Cottage" 
awaited  its  guests.  Sunny  Slope  had  now  something 
the  appearance  of  a  village,  for  not  far  from  the  Cot- 
tage another  had  been,  during  the  last  few  days,  hastily 
built.  In  it  the  Stuarts  were  to  summer. 

The  proposed  transfer  of  camps  before  the  opening 
of  another  season  had  appeared  to  render  close  super- 
vision by  the  "Chief"  necessary.  That  there  was  yet 
another  and  a  greater  reason  for  the  prompt  accept- 
ance of  the  invitation  by  the  Stuarts  to  join  the  happy, 
expectant  "Woods"  company,  MacByrne  was  to  learn 
later,  and  in  a  manner  so  nearly  tragic  that,  had  it  been 
suspected,  it  must  have  overshadowed  the  pleasures  at 
hand. 

Two  men,  very  unlike  in  appearance,  stood  for  a 
moment,  hand  closely  clasped  in  hand,  each  looking 
into  the  eyes  and  into  the  soul  of  the  other!  How 
much  had  happened  since  that  hour  when  the  one  had 
whispered  "Courage"  to  that  other,  who,  with  quiver- 
ing heartstrings,  had  stood  quaffing  his  bitter  draught! 

But,  however  happy  the  meeting,  there  was  enough 
that  demanded  immediate  attention  effectually  to  inter- 
fere with  mere  sentiment.  The  "belongings"  must  be 
arranged  for  the  summer,  besides  the  Professor  was 
as  eager  as  a  boy  for  the  sports  of  which  the  woods  had 
260 


ONCE  MORE  AT  SUNNY  SLOPE 

already  whispered  to  him.  Dorothy,  in  a  state  of  tre- 
mendous excitement,  flitted  in  and  out  between  the 
two  homes*  Nominally  she  was  with  the  Stuarts,  but 
acutally  not  a  cranny  of  Bark  Cottage  but  knew  her 
presence. 

Among  them  all  there  were  so  many  questions  to 
be  asked  and  answered.  One  of  these  Dorothy  did  no't 
suspect,  but  it  had  intruded  itself  into  Mrs.  William- 
son's mind  during  her  entire  journey  northward.  At 
times  she  had  sat  silent,  her  gaze  apparently  on  the 
ever-deepening  woods  through  which  they  were  hasten- 
ing; but,  instead  of  these,  she  had  seen  ever  before  her 
a  low-lying  little  grave,  long  since  hid  in  its  wealth 
of  Southern  myrtle;  and  then  a  young  girl — another 
Dorothy — would  come  into  the  picture,  and  in  the 
mental  kaleidoscope  the  two,  baby  and  girl,  would 
blend;  and  ever,  at  that  juncture,  the  ugly  question 
would  rear  its  head,  and  she  found  herself  nearing  the 
meeting,  with  a  dread  of  which  she  could  not  have 
spoken,  even  to  the  husband  at  her  side.  (So  live  we, 
most  of  us,  the  solitary  life.) 

To  one  reared  as  she,  it  had  seemed  impossible 
that  a  young  girl  could  be  thrown  so  utterly  upon  her 
own  resources  as  had  the  elder  Dorothy,  without  a  re- 
sultant loss.  Indeed  it  has  happened,  in  by  far  too 
many  instances  (as  a  sequence  perhaps,  though  by  no 
means  a  necessary  one,  to  that  modern  "increased  ac- 
tivity" for  women,  of  which  we  boast),  that  a  loud 
assertiveness  is  developed,  which,  alas!  fatally  obscures 
in  its  holder  that  gentleness  of  manners  which,  let  us 
26l 


DOROTHY 

trust,  will  ever  remain  the  distinctive  grace  of  woman- 
hood. It  was  this  that  Mrs.  Williamson  feared  for 
Dorothy. 

Quickly,  hungrily,  her  eyes  took  in  the  least  of  the 
unsuspecting  girl's  actions;  but,  before  the  day  had 
passed,  her  face  lasped  into  a  sweet,  brooding,  mother- 
like  content.  The  babe  beneath  the  myrtle  would  not 
be  shamed ;  that  older  Dorothy,  who  had  crept  into 
and  comforted  the  aching  mother-heart,  was  worthy. 

Involuntarily  she  recalled  Aunt  Violet's  comment 
of  other  years :  "Dat  chile  is  a  bawn  lady,  sho' !" 

A  "bawn"  lady,  with  the  added  graces  of  self- 
reliance  and  the  culture  of  the  schools! 


262 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

ANOTHER  GUEST 

THE  "campers"  were  soon  quite  settled,  and  as 
they  drank  in  the  ozone  of  the  woods,  all  agreed  this 
an  ideal  spot  for  a  summer's  outing.  The  trail  leading 
to  Silver  Lake  soon  became  well  traveled.  The  boats 
provided  before  the  coming  of  the  visitors  by  the 
thoughtfulness  of  MacByrne,  had  been  moored  to  its 
sloping  banks.  There  was  seldom  a  day  but  that  they 
were  used  by  one  or  more  members  of  the  party,  either 
in  fishing  or  rowing;  if  the  latter,  with  a  little  island  in 
the  lake  as  the  usual  objective  point.  This  bit  of  land, 
fully  a  half  mile  in  length,  but  narrower  in  places, 
was  covered  with  a  heavy  undergrowth  of  saplings  and 
bushes,  these  last  supplying  an  abundance  of  wild 
berries.  The  entire  island  was  a  favorite  nesting- 
place  for  wild  fowl,  and  a  rendezvous  for  the  animals 
with  which  the  surrounding  wood  abounded.  The 
spot  was  rich  in  attractions  for  the  Professor,  for  it 
afforded  fine  facilities  for  studying  the  habits  of  the 
creatures  that  frequented  it,  as  well  as  the  remarkable 
flora  that  covered  it. 

Dorothy  frequently  rowed  him  back  and  forth  from 
the  mainland,  and  as  their  boat  sped  over  the  water 
their  conversation  often  centered  about  Middletown 
and  the  many  changes  that  had  come  to  it  since  she 

263 


DOROTHY 

had  ceased  to  be  a  part,  and  sometimes,  as  it  appeared 
to  her,  the  name  of  Robert  Stirling  crept  into  the 
narratives  with  a  frequenc3r  that  was  remarkable. 

Once  he  told  her,  with  considerable  minuteness,  of 
Barnolde's  millpond  adventure  (the  story  of  which 
had  somehow  leaked  out,  to  the  extent  of  a  few 
friends).  There  was  a  chance  word  here  and  there, 
in  the  narative,  that  pointed  to  the  identity  of  one  of 
the  actors  in  that  remarkable  scene;  and  although  she 
tried  to  look  unconcerned,  her  heart  thrilled  at  the 
championship  implied,  and  the  Professor,  scanning  her 
closely,  noted  with  secret  satisfaction  the  blush  that 
overspread  her  forehead  when,  after  the  story,  her  eyes 
met  his. 

One  eveging,  after  the  party  had  been  in  the  woods 
a  few  weeks,  as  Mrs.  Stuart  and  Dorothy  approached 
the  cottage  (they  had  returned  from  a  day's  outing 
a  little  in  advance  of  the  others),  they  were  surprised 
to  see  a  stranger  outstretched  in  one  of  the  hammocks, 
and  evidently  very  much  at  home. 

By  his  side,  as  if  on  guard,  lay  a  stocky  bulldog, 
who  proceeded  at  once  to  challenge  their  approach 
with  an  ominous  growl.  At  the  sound,  there  quickly 
emerged  from  the  depths  of  the  hammock  a  tall,  well- 
built  young  man,  whose  proportions  were  accentuated 
by  the  blouse  and  knickerbockers,  each  of  a  dark-green 
plaid,  which  he  wore.  A  very  diminutive  cap  of  the 
same  material  fitted  very  snugly  to  the  back  of  his 
head,  and  lent  an  almost  boyish  appearance  to  the 
clearly  cut,  handsome  features  beneath. 
264 


ANOTHER  GUEST 

He  paused  for  a  moment,  at  the  approach  of  the 
ladies,  to  adjust  a  monocle  which  he  wore,  and  then, 
with  an  air  of  glad  expectancy,  came  forward  to  greet 
them;  and  in  that  instant  Dorothy  recognized  Clay 
Worthington,  comrade  of  a  never-to-be-forgotten 
summer — Clay,  through  with  his  college  studies; 
through,  too,  so  it  seemed,  with  a  jaunt  on  the  Con- 
tinent, where  they  of  the  "Beeches"  thought  him  to  be. 

"Aw,  Dorothy,  my  little  comrade  Dorothy — Miss 
Dorothy  perhaps  I  had  better  say,  now  that  she  has 
grown  to  be  so  chawming  a  young  lady — I  am 
delighted  to  see  you  once  more;"  and  an  exceedingly 
well-shaped  hand  reached  out  and  took  hers. 

Dorothy's  surprise  was  very  evident,  a  surprise  in 
which  other  emotions  contended,  for  the  unexpected 
appearance  had  forcibly  recalled  that  last  day  upon 
"The  Knobs"  and  all  the  sad  after-happenings.  How- 
ever, she  quickly  recovered  herself,  and,  after  a  word 
of  welcome,  presented  Mrs.  Stuart,  who  had  stood  by, 
wondering  not  a  little  at  the  self  assurance  of  the 
stranger. 

After  this  presentation,  Clay  began  to  explain  his 
sudden  appearance. 

"Got  tired  running  around;  blamed  tiresome  busi- 
ness, this  going  nowhere  in  particular.  Tried  to  climb 
the  Alps;  fad,  you  know;  everybody  does  it;  beastly 
hard  work ;  does  n't  pay.  Started  out  then  to  do  the 
Old  Masters.  Between  you  and  me,  that 's  about  the 
worst  fraud  an  honest  youth  like  myself  can  attempt. 
But  it 's  the  fashion,  though  half  the  folks  have  n't  an 
idea  what  it 's  all  about.  Well,  I  did  my  share  of  the 

265 


DOROTHY 

raving  till  I  got  to  thinking  what  a  joke  the  whole 
thing  was.  Met  some  fine  fellows,  though,  while  I 
was  running  around.  Lord  East-Crowen  was  one. 
Had  some  good  shooting  up  at  his  Lodge.  But  one 
day  I  got  to  thinking  about  the  'Beeches.'  Thought  it 
would  be  such  a  fine  scheme  to  drop  in  and  surprise 
them  all.  No  sooner  said  than  done.  Found  every- 
body gone.  'Chesterfield'  (gift  of  Lord  East-Crowen 
— fine  dog,  I  tell  you)  would  not  make  up  with  Aunt 
Violet,  and,  what  is  more  to  the  point,  she  would  n't 
make  up  with  him  (stop  that,  Chester!)" — Chester 
was  snuffing  rather  viciously  at  the  hem  of  Dorothy's 
dress — "so,  as  'yellow  jack'  had  the  whole  South  in  its 
grasp,  I  thought  I  would  come  up  here.  Beastly  place, 
though !"  At  this  he  brushed  away  a  woodland  spider 
that  seemed  to  have  undertaken  a  critical  study  of  the 
particular  plaid  of  his  knickerbockers. 

In  the  running  fire  of  sentences,  he  had  told  the 
whole  story  of  a  year's  wandering.  About  the  time 
he  had  well  finished,  the  other  members  of  the  party 
came  up,  and  he  was  forced  to  begin  over.  "Beastly 
tiresome  though,"  he  grumbled. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  second  recital,  Dorothy, 
who  had  taken  to  herself  certain  responsibilities,  stole 
away  to  see  that  the  cook  had  all  in  readiness  for  the 
evening  meal. 

As  the  party  gathered  later  at  the  table,  the  news, 
which  Clay  had  brought  of  the  unexampled  progress 
of  the  scourge  became  the  sole  topic  of  conversation, 
saddening  the  hearts  of  all.  At  the  recital  the  little 
group  became  silent,  each  lost  in  thoughts  of  one's  own. 
266 


ANOTHER  GUEST 

It  was  Clay  who  recalled  them  by  addressing  the 
Professor:  "As  I  came  North  whom  do  you  suppose 
I  met?  You  would  never  guess.  Well,  that  favorite 
farmer  student  of  yours,  he  of  the  shocky  hair — Robert, 
you  used  to  call  him.  Fine  young  fellow  now ; 
shoulders  as  broad  as  those  of  Hercules,  hair  a  little 
more  civilized,  but  still  on  the  brush-pile  order. 
'Doctor,'  so  he  told  me.  Had  just  been  graduated — 
and  if  he  was  n't  on  his  way  to  the  South ! — having 
already  offered  his  services  as  physician,  and,  as  though 
that  were  not  enough,  that^  little  old  mother  of  his  was 
with  him.  My!  but  she  is  plucky!  When  I  told  her 
that  I  was  sorry  for  the  hardships  surely  awaiting  her, 
she  smiled  and  said,  'If  physicians  are  needed,  nurses 
surely  are;  as  for  the  hardships,  it  is  easier  to  go  and 
know  each  day's  happenings  than  to  remain  and  wait 
for  letters  that  might  not  come." 

"She  was  right,"  MacByrne  interposed. 

"My  opinion  is,"  Clay  continued,  "she  knows  the 
danger,  and  went  along  so  as  to  be  near  if  'Doctor 
Robert'  gets  the  fever,  as  he  surely  will.  All  North- 
erners do.  The  most  of  them  die.  Pity!  He  really 
is  a  fine  fellow." 

Dorothy  felt  a  clutching  at  her  heart.  "Die?  Was 
that  to  be  the  end?" 

"Did  you  tell  him  where  you  were  going?"  It 
was  his  sister  who  asked. 

"Yes;  told  him  we  were  going  to  have  a  sort  of 
family  reunion  up  here  in  the  wood,  with  Miss 
Dorothy  as  the  magnet  that  draws  us  all." 

At  this  Clay  made   an   extravagant   gesture.      In 

267 


DOROTHY 

attempting  to  lay  his  hand  melodramatically  over  his 
heart,  he  located  that  organ  quite  on  the  wrong  side 
much  to  the  amusement  of  the  company. 

"Think  I  had  better  get  through  with  the  young 
man,  now  that  I  am  on  the  subject,"  Clay  resumed. 
"He  sent  a  lot  of  messages  to  my  esteemed  brother,  the 
Herr  Professor,  and  to  our  ecclestiastical  friend.  Got 
off  a  whole  lot  (I  can't  remember  it  all)  about  what 
each  had  been  to  him.  The  final  parting  made  me 
feel,  as  Aunt  Violet  would  say,  as  if  I  had  seen  a 
'hant.'  His  train  was  just  starting,  and  we  were 
saying  the  'goodbyes'  when  he  leaned  forward,  turned 
me  inside  out  with  his  big  gray  eyes,  and  then  whis- 
pered, 'Be  worthy.'  I  could  not  imagine  what  he 
meant  till  I  recalled  our  conversation  of  the  hour, 
which  had  emphasized  the  point,  that  life  is  at  times 
a  pretty  hard  proposition  for  some;  has  been  for  him, 
I  am  sure,  while  it  has  been  mighty  easy  for  me ;  every- 
thing done  for  a  fellow,  you  know." 

As  Clay  finished  his  long  speech,  the  company  arose 
from  the  table.  Dorothy,  unnoticed,  stole  out  to  be 
alone.  None  had  suspected  how  the  recital  had  stirred 
her.  "O  to  be  out,  out  under  the  sky,  out  alone  with 
herself!"  had  been  her  heart-cry  while  Clay  so  lightly 
talked.  The  shadow  of  the  woods  called  to  her  as 
she  stood  thinking.  In  a  moment  she  had  entered 
their  depths.  She  wandered  on  till  she  came  to  a 
great  tree,  under  which  MacByrne  had  fastened  one 
of  the  rustic  seats  he  had  delighted  in  fashioning.  Into 
this  she  sank.  As  she  did  so,  she  covered  her  face 
with  her  hands.  At  last  there  was  to  be  no  conceal- 
268 


ANOTHER  GUEST 

ment  between  herself  and  her  heart!  She  knew  that 
she  loved  this  brave  man  who  at  the  moment  was 
facing  death,  and  in  this  hour  of  self-introspection  she 
acknowledged  that  this  love  was  not  a  new  thing, 
but  that  it  had  been  born  and  had  grown  strong  in 
those  old  happy  days  of  which  Clay's  presence  had 
been  a  sharp  reminder.  She  believed,  too — and  this 
without  the  evidence  of  a  single  spoken  word — that 
she  was  beloved ;  and  then,  sick  at  heart,  it  swept  over 
her  that  the  wall  that  had  risen  years  before  to  part 
them  still  existed:  beyond  a  doubt  Robert  had  mis- 
construed Clay's  innocent  presence  in  the  woods.  She 
understood,  if  Clay  did  not,  the  strange  parting 
admonition.  At  the  thought  a  wave  of  desolation,  as 
if  she  were  already  at  the  bier  of  her  dead,  encom- 
passed her.  Clay  was  right,  she  told  herself:  Robert 
would  surely  die !  Mechanically  she  clenched  her 
hands.  What  should  she  do?  She  had  ever  been 
quick  of  impulse,  and  for  a  time  it  seemed  she,  too, 
must  fly  to  the  South,  must  beg  the  privilege  of  serving 
by  his  side.  But  no,  that  were  unmaidenly;  and  then 
she  bowed  her  head.  She  had  remembered  that  her 
heart  had  gone  out  unasked.  But  was  there  nothing 
she  could  do?  Nothing!  absolutely  nothing?  The 
answer  came  as  distinctly  as  the  swaying  of  the  boughs 
overhead.  She  might  suffer  but  she  must  make  no 
sign.  But  was  there  nothing?  She  thought  long. 
Ah!  after  all,  there  yet  remained  something,  a  some- 
thing in  which  the  Ryedales  had  never  failed.  She 
could  be  brave!  And  she  would!  No  one  should 
know  of  the  travail  of  soul  that  had  been  hers.  And, 
269 


DOROTHY 

further,  not  one  of  the  little  group  in  the  cottages 
yonder  should  know  a  less  happy  hour  because  of  her 
half-guilty  secret. 

Presently  she  arose  to  go.  As  she  did  so  she  stood 
for  a  moment  under  the  drooping  branches.  Her  ear 
caught  the  slightest  rustle  overhead;  and  then  a  few 
faint  trills  of  song,  gradually  growing  louder;  finally 
a  melody  of  ravishing  sweetness  fell  upon  her  listen- 
ing ear.  A  song-bird  had  perched  upon  the  topmost 
bough  overhead,  and  its  vibrant  body  was  swaying  to 
the  music  of  its  vesper  song. 

The  girl  stood  as  if  entranced.  Presently  her  heart 
took  up,  and  responded  to,  the  pean  of  praise  being 
sung,  and  as  she  listened  a  measure  of  hope  stole  into 
her  heart.  "He  may  not  die,"  she  whispered  to  her- 
self, nor  the  estrangement  last  forever.  Besides,  there 
still  remains  "trust."  Unconsciously  she  lifted  her 
face  upward,  even  beyond  the  singing  bird. 

A  moment  later  when  she  had  emerged  from  the 
shadows  of  the  woodland  into  the  open,  her  step  was 
light  as  usual,  and  not  a  shadow  rested  upon  the 
sensitive,  mobile  face. 

It  is  well  that  mankind  has  a  dual  nature,  which 
permits  it,  even  when  the  heart  is  sad,  to  wear  a  mask 
of  gayety;  and  it  is  further  well  that  if  the  mask  be 
persistently  worn,  the  assumed  feeling  becomes  to  a 
degree  real;  because  of  this,  all  bearers  of  burdens  do 
not  become  morbid.  Were  this  not  true,  the  world 
were  indeed  a  sorry  place. 

MacByrne,  narrowly  watching  Dorothy  (for 
Clay's  presence  had  filled  his  heart  with  questioning) 
270 


ANOTHER  GUEST 

as  she  returned,  caught  no  hint  of  the  heart-searching 
through  which  she  had  passed,  and  during  the  weeks 
of  pleasure  that  followed,  not  a  single  member  of  the 
party  contributed  more  to  its  enjoyment  than  she. 

There  was  scarcely  a  day  but  trips  of  one  kind, 
and  another,  were  planned.  Upon  these  she  and  Clay 
fell  into  a  sort  of  natural  companionship,  undisturbed 
by  Chester,  who  quite  forsook  the  Cottage,  spending 
most  of  the  time  with  the  woodsmen  in  their  new 
camp.  Many  of  these  jaunts  were  enlivened  by 
spirited  discussions  between  the  two,  upon  whom  it 
began  to  appear  the  years  had  made  little  difference 
as  to  their  respective  tenets.  Clay's  aping  of  English 
ways  had  been,  in  fact,  unconscious ;  still  it  was  a 
source  of  disgust  to  his  sister,  and  of  jest  to  Dorothy, 
who  frequently  referred  to  him  as  a  fine  "old  English 
copy."  "As  if  I  were  a  bit  of  vellum,"  Clay  com- 
plained. 

Once,  when  rowing,  there  was  a  collision  of  some 
kind,  and  the  monocle,  which,  despite  the  jests,  he 
had  continued  to  wear,  "as  a  proof,"  so  he  said, 
"that  he  had  a  mind  of  his  own,"  went  to  the  bottom 
of  the  lake,  as  he  supposed. 

"Let  it  alone,"  counseled  Dorothy.  "I  have  no 
doubt  some  smart  little  pickerel  is  already  wearing  it." 

A  few  days  afterward,  as  the  company  were  about 
sitting  down  to  dine,  they  broke  into  peals  of  laughter. 
Clay,  looking  for  the  cause,  saw  that  the  baked  trout 
was  looking  askance  at  the  hungry  crowd  through  his 
own  monocle!  For  a  full  second  he  had  half  a  mind 
to  be  offended.  That  he  should  be  made  a  jest!  He 
271 


DOROTHY 

that  had  ever  been  used  to  appreciation  from  woman- 
kind! The  truth  was  that,  in  these  days,  some  very 
serious  thoughts  were  surging  through  this  usually 
free-from-care  brain. 

It  was  Frances  Willard  who  observed  that  what 
the  easy-going  world  needs  is  an  "arrest  of  thought." 
Not  one  in  the  party  suspected  that  such  an  experience 
had  come  to  Clay.  Yet  it  was  true.  His  chance 
meeting  with  Robert  Stirling  had  stirred  him  to  the 
depths;  for,  looking  into  that  strong,  resolute  face, 
he  had  caught  a  glimpse  of  a  purpose  so  strong  and 
indomitable  that  he  in  whom  it  dwelt  was  ready  to 
live,  and  if  necessary  die,  for  the  relief  of  the  suffering. 

If  thought  be  once  arrested,  there  may  be  found 
on  every  hand  much  to  deepen  the  chance  impression ; 
and  so  the  "Woods  Preacher,"  who  foregoing  one 
civilization  had  wrought  another,  became  a  daily 
object  lesson  to  the  more  and  more  aroused  young 
man.  Even  Dorothy,  slight  girl  that  she  was,  he 
admitted  to  himself,  had  her  life  plans  in  which  self- 
indulgence  had  no  part.  He  alone,  it  seemed,  was  an 
idler.  Was  such  idleness  wrong? 

Never  before  had  the  question  intruded  itself,  and 
in  self-justification  he  went  over  the  forces  that  had 
been  potent  in  his  life.  "Robert  was  right,"  he 
reflected,  when  he  had  intimated  at  the  time  of  their 
meeting  that  life  had  been  made  easy  for  him.  In 
his  childhood  he  had  been  loyally  served;  in  his  youth 
his  studies  and  his  schools  had  been  selected  for  him; 
and  now,  in  his  early  manhood,  a  fortune  ample  for 
his  needs  was  at  his  disposal. 
272 


ANOTHER  GUEST 

But  now,  in  a  'day,  that  "future"  of  which  every 
one,  be  he  aught  of  a  man,  must  sometimes  dream 
seemed  close  at  hand,  and  in  it  he  saw  that,  if  he 
remained  worthy  of  the  name  he  bore,  he,  too,  must 
do  his  full  share  of  the  world's  work.  But  how? 
Work,  whether  of  brain  or  of  the  hand,  is  a  habit,  and 
habit  can  not  be  acquired  in  a  day.  Clearly,  the  im- 
pulse must  come  from  without. 

Emerson  has  declared  "the  chief  want  in  life  to 
be  a  friend  that  shall  make  us  do  our  best."  Ah! 
this  was  the  necessary  "want"  that  now  began  to 
knock  at  the  door  of  the  young  man's  heart;  and  so 
it  came  about  that  he  began  to  link  with  that  misty 
"future,"  with  which  he  was  now  ever  busy,  two 
faces — one  bright,  earnest,  itself  an  inspiration;  the 
other,  that  proud,  shadowy  one  that,  in  a  long-ago 
summer,  though  but  a  shadow,  had  been  yet  forceful 
enough  to  leave  mere  "comradeship"  where  at  least 
one  saw  sentiment.  A  "shadow!"  yet  not  without  a 
right  to  exist,  for  it  reflected  the  face  of  a  playmate 
in  the  old  happy  plantation  days,  when  two  families 
had  lived  in  neighborly  friendship,  and  two  sweet, 
gracious  Southern  mothers  had  dreamed  their  innocent 
dream  of  the  day  when  the  playing  children  should 
link  the  families  yet  closer.  As  the  days  of  the  present 
summer  went  by,  each  filled  to  the  last  minute  with 
pleasure — alas  for  the  mother  dream! — the  beauti- 
ful patrician  face  crept  farther  and  still  farther  into 
the  background! 

One  day  Clay  and  Dorothy  had  been  rowing — 
drifting  were  better — upon  Silver  Lake.  The  con- 
18  273 


DOROTHY 

versation,  beginning  with  the  present  scourge  in  the 
Southland,  had  become  general;  touching  the  South 's 
political  woes  as  well;  and  a  discussion  followed,  of 
that  new  school  of  writers  who  were  maintaining  that 
out  of  the  present  unrest  there  was  about  to  arise  a 
new  South  greater  than  the  old. 

Suddenly  Dorothy  exclaimed:  "If  I  were  of 
Southern  birth,  with  the  long  line  of  statesmen  back 
of  me  that  have  so  honored  the  nation  I  would  pray 
God,  first,  to  help  me  realize  that  the  old  order  of 
things  was  forever  gone;  and  then  I  would  gird 
myself,  and  do  all  that  one  individual  might,  to  make 
the  newer  order  of  affairs  so  much  better  than  the  old 
that  there  need  not  be  a  sigh  for  the  past."  Then, 
realizing  and  ashamed  of  her  enthusiasm,  and  fearful 
that  she  had  spoken  too  plainly,  she  was  silent. 

As  in  the  old  tale,  at  the  weird  notes  of  the  blind 
harpist,  the  clan  came  together  as  one  man  to  follow 
the  fortunes  of  their  Highland  chief,  so,  at  the  im- 
passioned words,  the  blood  of  men  who  had  borne  no 
small  part  in  the  nation's  history  began  to  stir  in  the 
veins  of  their  careless  descendant. 

Presently  he  leaned  over,  and  before  his  companion 
could  divine  his  purpose  he  took  her  hand,  and,  more 
solemnly  than  she  had  ever  heard  him  speak,  he 
said:  "Dorothy  you  are  a  prophetess.  All  that  you 
have  pictured  I  will  try  to  do  and  be,  only  you  must 
be  by  my  side  in  the  effort,  my  inspiration;"  and  then 
— although  in  all  the  watery  expanse  there  was  none 
to  hear  save  a  screaming  waterfowl  that  flew  over 
their  heads,  save  also  a  muskrat  that  at  the  moment 
274 


ANOTHER  GUEST 

cautiously  peeped  from  its  cover  in  the  near-by  island — 
he  lowered  his  voice  to  a  whisper:  "You  must  be 
my  wife.  Come  to  me,  Dorothy ;  I  need  you  so !" 

It  is  not  ours  to  listen  too  closely  to  what  followed, 
nor  to  note  the  dismay  of  Dorothy,  who  blamed  her- 
self for  the  pain  she  must  inflict,  but  finally  even 
Clay  saw  that  his  suit  was  hopeless.  In  a  silence 
painful  to  each,  the  two  made  their  way  back  to  the 
shore,  where  Princess  was  already  snuffing  the  air, 
anxious  for  the  homeward  swing,  the  Professor  and 
Mrs.  Williamson  being  already  well  within  the  shadow 
of  the  woodland. 

As  they  stepped  ashore,  Clay  whispered:  "Believe 
me,  I  have  not  known  you  in  vain.  You  have  shown 
me  life  as  it  should  be.  I  shall  try  to  live  worthy  of 
our  old  plight  of  comradeship." 

Later,  as  the  entire  party  drove  up  to  Bark  Cot- 
tage, MacByrne,  who  had  remained  at  home  came 
out  to  meet  them.  His  face  was  drawn,  and  appeared 
haggard  with  anxiety.  "The  papers  are  in,"  was  his 
first  salutation;  adding,  "The  situation  at  New 
Orleans  is  beyond  belief." 

"You  have  had  news  of  Robert?"  It  was  the 
Professor  who  asked. 

"Yes;  his  mother,  who  has,  it  is  said,  nursed  fear- 
lessly from  the  beginning,  is  in  the  list  of  dead." 

"And  Robert?"  the  Professor  insisted. 

"Is  very  ill.  Read  the  article  yourself.  The  tone 
is  hopeless.  Few,  it  seems,  recover." 

At  this  a  cry,  in  reality  a  groan,  escaped  from 
Dorothy.  Looking  at  her,  her  friends  saw  that  her 

275 


DOROTHY 

lips,  though  tightly  drawn  to  repress  emotion,  were 
nearly  as  white  as  the  face  from  which  all  color  had 
fled. 

It  was  Clay  who  relieved  the  tension.  "I  have 
lingered  too  long  in  these  beautiful  woods,"  he  said, 
"while  those  dear  to  me  by  every  tie  are  dying.  I 
must  leave  you  all  to-night.  The  mail-carrier  is  about 
to  make  his  return  trip.  I  will  accompany  him.  Come, 
Dorothy,"  he  added,  almost  gayly,  "help  me  pack." 

As  the  two  turned  away  together,  Clay  said  softly : 
"Your  secret  is  out,  Dorothy;  I  suspected  it  long  ago. 
He  is  worthier  than  I;  and,  Dorothy — hear  me!  He 
will  not  die." 


276 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 
A  FOREST  FIRE 

IT  was  a  saddened  group  that  gathered  at  the 
breakfast-table  the  morning  following  Clay's  depart- 
ure. The  newspapers  that  had  brought  the  story  of 
the  young  physician's  bravery,  and  of  his  illness  as 
well,  had  been  closely  read,  and  all,  not  excepting  the 
stranger  Stuarts,  sorrowed  at  the  prospect  of  the 
untimely  going  out  of  such  a  life. 

So  many  of  Mrs.  Williamson's  relatives  were  in 
the  region  over  which  the  plague  was  sweeping  that, 
like  her  brother,  she  felt  she  must  get  nearer,  must 
come  in  closer  touch  with  telegraphic  instruments  and 
the  daily  mail.  "Should  they  break  camp?"  was  the 
question  each  was  at  heart  considering  as,  in  unwonted 
silence,  they  came  together. 

But  this,  all  realized,  had  its  sting,  though  it 
might  bring  the  relief  of  action;  for  with  their  going, 
MacByrne,  whose  heart  was  torn  with  anxiety  for 
further  news  from  Robert,  must  return  to  his  old 
solitary  life;  the  removal  of  the  camp  made  his  con- 
tinued presence  in  the  woods  imperative.  Still  he 
would  not  utter  a  restraining  word. 

There  was  yet  another  reason  that  urged  their 
277 


DOROTHY 

going.  The  waning  summer  had  been  a  very  dry 
one.  True,  the  spring  had  brought  its  freshets;  but 
these  had  been  largely  caused  by  the  melting  of  the 
snow.  A  few  light  showers  had  fallen  in  early  June, 
but  July  had  come  and  gone.  Each  day  the  burning 
heat  had  increased ;  but,  alas !  not  a  drop  of  the  longed- 
for  rain  had  fallen.  Now  for  a  week  the  August 
sun  had  beaten  down  relentlessly.  The  small  streams 
of  the  woodland  were  long  since  dry.  The  lesser  ones 
of  the  chain  of  small  lakes  were  shrunk  into  mere 
pools.  These  had  begun  in  the  last  few  days  to  give 
out  an  odor  of  decaying  fish. 

It  was  very  quiet  in  the  woods  now.  During  the 
entire  summer  preparations  had  gone  steadily  forward 
for  the  removal  of  the  camp.  Only  the  week  before 
the  present  one,  Mr.  Stuart  had  stood  by,  and  seen 
the  last  "shanty"  torn  down,  and  then  had  watched 
the  chapel  and  mess-house  undergo  the  same  process. 
Being  "between  seasons,"  the  greater  part  of  the  usual 
army  of  woodsmen  had  gone  elsewhere,  only  a  few 
having  been  retained  to  assist  in  the  removal  of  the 
camp.  These  had  left  for  the  new  quarters. 

The  forest  was  not  wholly  denuded.  The  axes 
of  the  woodsmen  had  left,  here  and  there,  a  tall  hem- 
lock or  birch.  A  wooded  hill  lay  back  of  Bark  Cottage, 
in  which  only  a  few  of  the  choicer  trees  had  been 
cut,  the  rest  having  been  left  as  protection  for  those 
who  worked.  Everywhere  there  was  a  growth  of 
lesser  trees  and  bushes.  The  slopes  were  covered 
with  scarlet  sumachs  and  heavy  clumps  of  hazel- 
bushes.  In  the  swamps  the  tamaracks  were  yet  so 

278 


A  FOREST  FIRE 

dense   they   forbade   entrance   to   any   save   the   wild 
animals  that  clung  to  them  as  their  covert. 

During  the  drouth  these  had  seemed  to  lose  all 
fear  of  man.  Once  in  open  daylight  a  porcupine  hdd 
waddled  out  of  the  woods,  and  greedily  thrust  its 
nose  into  a  pail  of  water  that  had  chanced  to  stand 
upon  the  ground.  "Poor  creature!"  said  MacByrne, 
"it  is  dying  for  water." 

Mrs.  Williamson  would  not  have  liked  to  confess 
how  many  times  she  had  been  awakened,  and  had 
shivered  at  the  near-by  howl  of  hungry  wolves.  Clearly 
it  was  time  that  they  should  be  going ! 

The  forenoon  of  the  day  following  Clay's  depart- 
ure was  already  well  advanced.  Dorothy  and 
MacByrne,  each  too  restless  for  a  settled  task,  were 
busying  themselves  over  some  little  matter  in  front  of 
the  Cottage.  Each  understanding  the  other's  thoughts, 
they  worked  in  silence,  their  only  conversation  being 
now  and  then  a  word  concerning  the  prospect  of  rain  ; 
for  a  peculiar-looking  cloud  had  appeared  on  the  dis- 
tant horizon,  and  within  an  hour  a  breeze  had  sprung 
up. 

The  Williamsons  had  gone  for  a  stroll  in  the 
woods. 

"Do  you  think  it  is  going  to  rain?"  Mrs.  Stuart 
called  from  the  hammock  where  she  lay  resting.  Her 
husband  was  busy  inside  the  cottage;  the  postman 
had  brought  him  a  heavy  mail. 

"I  am  sure  I  can  not  tell,"  MacByrne  replied.    "I 
think  I  never  saw  a  cloud  so  peculiar  in  appearance," 
he  continued,  scanning  it  closely. 
279 


DOROTHY 

"As  it  is  the  first  we  have  had  in  weeks,  perhaps 
it  would  be  just  as  well  not  to  be  critical,"  Dorothy 
interposed. 

Suddenly  Princess,  in  her  not  distant  stall  gave 
a  loud  and  impatient  neigh  and  began  to  pace  back 
forth,  as  if  insisting  upon  being  allowed  to  join  them. 
Used  to  her  pretty,  childish  ways,  Dorothy  hastened 
and  undid  the  fastenings  that  held  her.  She  went 
straight  to  her  master,  and  laying  her  head  upon  his 
arm,  gave  a  prolonged  neigh  of  unmistakable  terror, 
which  was  caught  up  and  echoed  by  the  more  distant 
work-horses,  left  for  the  convenience  of  the  guests. 

"I  have  not  seen  so  many  birds  during  all  the 
time  we  have  been  in  the  woods  as  have  flown  by  this 
morning."  It  was  Dorothy  that  made  the  observation, 
meanwhile  stroking  and  trying  to  soothe  Princess. 
"A  little  while  ago,"  she  continued,  "several  flocks 
of  quail  flew  by,  and  a  company  of  jays,  that  did  not 
once  stop  to  scold.  I  can  not  imagine  what  it  all 
means.  Look!"  she  called  out,  excitedly.  Some  red 
squirrels,  perhaps  a  dozen  or  more,  were  scampering 
by,  not  appearing  in  the  least  to  notice  the  presence 
of  either  man  or  girl. 

At  this,  MacByrne  became  fully  aroused.  All 
morning  he  had  seen  only  a  fever-stricken  ward  in  a 
far-away  hospital,  in  which  lay  a  brave  young  man, 
his  face  already  taking  on  the  hue  of  death.  All 
morning  the  body  had  chafed  at  its  limitations.  Why 
could  it  not  fly,  as  the  birds  overhead  were  flying? 

But  what  was  this  Dorothy  was  saying?  And 
what  was  the  matter  with  Princess?  His  face  began 
280 


A  FOREST  FIRE 

to  blanch.  He  strode,  almost  ran,  to  the  edge  of  the 
clearing.  Once  there,  he  anxiously  scanned  the  sullen, 
overhanging  cloud,  which  now  seemed  strangely 
marred  with  wisps  of  light.  As  he  did  so,  he  muttered 
to  himself,  "If  a  fire  should  break  out,  and  it  so  dry!" 
He  shuddered.  "There  are  acres  of  fallen  logs  that 
would  be  little  better  than  tinder." 

Then  he  stood,  as  if  paralyzed,  for  in  that  instant 
a  shower  of  leaves  fell  at  his  feet,  and  as  in  a  daze  he 
saw  that  some  of  them  were  charred! 

"There  is  no  time  to  lose,"  he  called  out  hoarsely; 
"the  woods  are  on  fire!  Steady,  my  beautiful  lady," 
this  to  Princess,  who  had  followed  him,  and  was 
shaking  with  terror.  "You  must  help  us!" 

At  the  fateful  words,  Mr.  Stuart  at  once  joined 
him.  No  need  to  waste  time  in  further  explanation; 
not  one  in  all  the  terrified  group  knew  so  well  as  he 
the  awful  peril  that  threatened.  And  he  knew,  too, 
as  did  MacByrne,  that  their  lives  hung  upon  a  single 
thread.  If  they  would  live,  they  must  reach  Silver 
Lake,  and  Silver  Lake  was  a  little  less  than  ten  miles 
away!  And,  alas!  his  own  swift  team  that  would 
have  easily  borne  them  to  safety,  were  at  the  moment 
in  their  distant  stalls,  having  carried  Clay  to  the 
station  but  yesterday ! . 

In  this  hour  of  supreme  need  there  was  but  one 
frail  dependence, — "Old  Faithful,"  well  fed  and 
plethoric,  kept  only  in  deference  to  Mrs.  Stuart's 
tastes,  and  brought  to  the  wood  for  her  sole  con- 
venience. How  they  had  laughed  at  her  when  she 
had  insisted  that  he  be  brought!  It  flashed  upon 
28l 


DOROTHY 

her  husband  in  these  awful  seconds,  as  he  weighed 
their  small  chances  of  escape,  that  they  would  never 
laugh  again;  for  Faithful  could  not  possibly  make 
the  trip.  Still  they  must  at  least  make  the  attempt. 

All  was  now  haste.  In  a  twinkling  Mrs.  Stuart 
was  being  hurried  into  a  cart.  Suddenly  MacByrne, 
who  had  just  remembered,  cried  out:  "The  William- 
sons !  They  are  in  the  woods !"  he  groaned  in  anguish. 
"They  will  not  escape!"  At  that  instant  they  came 
into  sight,  walking  hurriedly.  They,  too,  had  noticed 
and  been  alarmed  at  the  weird  sight  of  flying  animals. 
It  had  been  as  if  each  denizen  of  the  forest  had  scented 
an  alarm,  and  was  in  consequence  hurrying,  still 
hurrying. 

As  they  approached,  MacByrne  shouted:  "Hurry! 
for  the  love  of  life,  hurry!  The  forest  is  on  fire! 
Do  not  stop  to  save  anything!"  he  called,  frantically; 
for  at  his  words  Mrs.  Williamson  had  darted  into  the 
Cottage.  With  a  strong  arm  he  caught  her,  and 
lifted  her  into  the  light  buggy  to  which  Princess  had 
already  been  hitched.  "Here,  Dorothy,"  he  continued, 
"you  and  Professor  Williamson  get  in,  or  on.  Some- 
how you  must  make  it  to  Silver  Lake."  He  paused  an 
instant,  then  dashed  into  the  Cottage.  He  was  out  in 
a  moment,  carrying  a  bundle  of  blankets  and  wraps. 
A  part  of  these  he  tossed  to  Mr.  Stuart,  who,  after  a 
questioning  look,  took  them  very  gravely. 

They  were  now  ready  to  start.     "But  where  will 
you  put  yourself?"    They  were  asking  it  of  MacByrne. 
"There  are  horses  in  the  barn"  he  cheerily  replied. 
282 


A  FOREST  FIRE 

Yes,  there  were  two,  each  slow  of  foot,  stolid, 
useful  in  drawing  heavy  loads,  but  useless  if  speed 
were  required.  Each  friend  understood, — in  yielding 
Princess  he  had  yielded  his  chance  of  life! 

"Princess"  (her  master  was  close  at  her  head), 
"Princess,  do  you  understand?  You  must  travel  as 
you  have  never  before  traveled.  Never  has  so  much 
depended  upon  you.  You  will  not  fail?"  No; 
Princess  would  not  fail. 

She  answered  by  a  caress  all  her  own;  for  a  single 
instant  the  beautiful  head  cuddled,  as  a  child's  might 
have  done,  on  the  man's  arm;  then  with  a  spring  she 
broke  into  a  succession  of  swift,  steady  strides.  Princess 
understood !  How,  we  do  not  comprehend,  but  beyond 
all  doubt  she  knew  the  danger,  and  knew,  too,  where 
safety  lay.  A  light  hand  rested  upon  her  rein,  but  it 
need  not;  she  was  swiftly  covering  the  ground  to 
Silver  Lake. 

Behind  her,  no  less  alive  to  the  situation,  "Faith- 
ful" was  doing  his  best.  It  was  well;  for  by  this 
time  the  second  shower  of  leaves  had  fallen  and  again 
each  leaf  was  charred  and  crisped.  The  haze  that 
had  been  the  first  cause  of  alarm,  growing  blacker 
with  the  minutes,  was  now  touched  here  and  there 
with  crimson,  while  a  cloud  of  smoke,  that  had  been 
borne  rapidly  from  the  west,  hung  like  a  pall  over 
all  Sunny  Slope,  as  if  prophetic  of  coming  doom. 

As  MacByrne  turned  to  seek  his  own  safety  he 
remembered  the  cook,  whom  he  had  not  seen  since 
the  alarm;  but  it  was  evident  that  individual  had 

283 


DOROTHY 

already  flown,  for  but  a  single  animal  remained,  a.nd 
that  the  poorer  of  the  two.  As  he  mounted  the  cower- 
ing animal,  a  soft  roar,  not  unlike  the  hum  of  bees, 
about  a  tree-trunk  where  they  have  concealed  their 
booty,  struck  his  ear,  and  then  broke  into  sharp, 
ominous  crashes. 

MacByrne  urged  the  animal  into  a  gallop.  Instinc- 
tively he  turned  for  a  farewell  glimpse  of  Bark 
Cottage,  dear  to  him  by  a  thousand  associations.  As 
he  looked,  a  brand  fell  upon  its  dry,  overhanging 
roof,  and  in  the  instant  of  his  glance  a  tongue  of  fire 
crept  in  and  out,  among  the  heavy  bark  slabs. 

What  of  the  fugitives?  On,  like  the  wings  of 
a  flying  bird,  sped  Princess.  With  her,  there  had 
been  no  need  to  urge.  The  oncoming  doom  had 
whispered  into  her  ears  the  terror  of  its  story  as  dis- 
tinctly as  it  had  to  the  three  who,  back  of  her,  trembled 
in  foreboding,  helpless  silence.  Two,  three,  and  five 
miles  had  been  traveled,  and  Princess  was  surely  tiring, 
for  she  was  no  longer  young;  but  still  with  her  head 
proudly  arched,  though  with  steam  issuing  from  her 
nostrils  and  sweat  dripping  from  her  glossy  sides,  she 
made  no  pause. 

Another  mile;  the  head  began  to  droop,  and  the 
tongue  to  roll  helplessly  out.  Still  another,  and  the 
spirited  animal  was  swaying,  and,  alas!  the  steady, 
all-enveloping  avalanche  of  smoke,  of  burning  twigs, 
and  of  shifting  cinders  was  drawing  nearer.  The  Pro- 
fessor and  Dorothy,  noting  the  animal's  plight,  each 
sprang  to  the  ground,  and  swiftly  ran  by  her  side, 
and,  although  creeping  tongues  of  flame  glowed  on 
284 


A  FOREST  FIRE 

every  bush,  Dorothy  did  not  fail,  as  they  pressed  for- 
ward, to  stroke  the  bowed  head  and  to  call  out, 
"Steady,  Princess,  steady;  you  will  make  it  yet." 

A  turn  of  the  road  disclosed  the  gleaming  water, 
yet  a  space  distant.  At  this,  as  if  impelled  by  a  power 
outside  of  herself,  Princess  "steadied,"  and  went  yet 
on.  But  Dorothy  noticed,  with  sinking  heart,  that, 
with  the  froth,  blood  was  beginning  to  mingle. 

By  every  means  within  his  power  MacByrne  urged 
on  the  terrified  animal  that  bore  him;  for  each  suc- 
ceeding shower  of  cinders  and  each  hot  blast  told  that 
the  fire  was  growing  nearer.  A  few  belated  animals, 
still  seeking  safety,  at  times  crossed  his  path.  All  at 
once  a  deer,  wild-eyed  and  panting,  darted  in  front  of 
the  horse,  and  then  re-entered  the  woods,  going,  to 
MacByrne's  horror,  directly  into  the  fire.  "Poor 
creature!"  he  said  to  himself;  "it  is  mad  with  fear; 
its  instinct  has  deserted  it."  The  superstition  of  the 
woodsmen  crossed  his  mind,  how,  if  an  animal  has  this 
"fear,"  it  may  give  it  to  another,  even  as  a  dog  gives 
to  a  man  the  rabies. 

He  had  heard  many  weird  instances  told  around 
the  glowing  fire  of  Bark  Cottage.  Were  such  super- 
stitious tales,  after  all,  true?  And  was  the  terrified 
animal  which  he  rode  a  present  victim?  It  looked  so; 
for  after  the  passage  of  the  deer  it  reared,  then  plunged 
madly  into  the  burning  wood.  With  difficulty  Mac- 
Byrne  reached  the  ground.  For  an  instant  he  stood 
dazed  and  smoke-blinded;  then  it  came  over  him  that 
at  last  life  for  him  was  over,  for  death  was  surely  at 

285 


DOROTHY 

hand;  but  what  a  miserable  death  for  a  brave  man  to 
die!  Ah!  if  he  only  might  reach  the  distant  water! 
To  try  were  better  than  inaction.  With  bowed  head 
he  started,  and  never  before  had  runner  a  greater  goal ! 

He  had  not  gone  far  until  he  was  conscious  of  a 
swaying  object  ahead.  It  proved  to  be  the  Stuarts, 
who,  crouching  hand  in  hand,  were,  with  that  calm- 
ness which  God  in  His  mercy  gives  to  most  of  His 
creatures  when  life  is  ending,  awaiting  the  swift  on- 
coming death. 

It  was  a  picture  that  might  have  enthralled  an 
artist;  for  the  man  who  so  calmly  sat,  soothing  his  in- 
valid wife  (had  he  been  alone,  he  might  have  escaped), 
was  one  who,  by  his  own  indomitable  will,  coupled 
with  untiring  industry,  had  wrested  great  financial 
victory  from  early  adversity.  He  was  a  king  in  his 
own  business  realm,  and  at  this  very  hour  held  in  his 
hands  the  financial  destiny  of  scores;  yet  here  he  sat, 
entrapped  in  his  own  burning  wood !  In  an  hour  only 
a  charred  heap  would  mark  where  he  had  fallen,  and 
soon  the  winds  would  catch  up  and  scatter  even  that! 

As  MacBryne  came  up  he  quickly  grasped  the  situ- 
ation, and  saw  that  "Faithful"  had  fallen  to  rise  no 
more.  In  less  time  than  it  takes  to  tell  the  story  he 
had  disentangled  the  shafts  from  the  fallen  horse,  had 
seized  the  protesting  woman  and  gently  forced  her  back 
into  the  seat,  then  grasping  one  of  the  shafts,  he  said 
to  Mr.  Stuart:  "You  take  the  other.  All  is  by  no 
means  lost.  The  lake  is  not  far  distant.  We  must 
reach  it!" 

In  the  meanwhile  Princess,  now  swaying,  now 
286 


A  FOREST  FIRE 

staggering,  had  at  the  last,  utterly  exhausted,  reached 
the  water's  edge.  As  she  did  so,  she  fell,  quite  loosing 
herself  from  the  cart. 

"Unfasten  the  boat,  Dorothy,"  the  Professor  was 
saying,  "and  take  Mrs.  Williamson  to  the  island.  I 
will  stop  for  a  minute  with  Princess." 

As  the  two  stepped  into  the  boat,  safety  at  last 
assured,  each  involuntarily  lifted  a  heart  of  praise. 

Midway  between  the  shore  and  the  island  Dor- 
othy's eye  was  caught  by  a  crumpled  bit  of  cambric 
and  lace ;  it  was  her  handkerchief,  which  she  had 
dropped  only  the  evening  before!  As  she  took  it  in 
her  hand,  it  seemed  to  her  it  must  have  been  in  another 
life,  when  she  and  Clay  had  idly  paddled  in  these  same 
waters. 

With  those  he  loved  on  the  way  to  safety,  the  Pro- 
fessor turned  to  Princess,  who  lay  with  half-closed, 
glassy  eyes  and  slowly  heaving  sides.  He  hurriedly 
dipped  water  from  the  lake  and  poured  it  over  her 
head.  As  he  was  thus  busy,  a  question  flashed  into  his 
mind.  Where  were  the  Stuarts?  It  was  high  time 
both  they  and  MacByrne  were  arriving. 

He  looked  anxiously  into  the  woods,  and  along  the 
path  by  which  he  had  just  come;  but  no  one  was  in 
sight.  Instead  he  saw  sumachs  flaming  as  they  had 
never  flamed  before.  He  saw  the  approach  of  a  bright 
tongue  as  it  crept,  now  along  the  withered  grass,  now 
stopping  in  a  roadside  bush,  now  eating  its  way  up 
the  trunk  of  a  stately  birch. 

For  an  instant  he  faltered— and  who  would  not? 
Then,  with  a  glance  at  the  island  which  Dorothy  was 

287 


DOROTHY 

now  approaching,  and  another  at  an  empty  boat  that 
invitingly  rocked  at  the  water's  edge,  he  turned,  and, 
with  a  bound,  again  entered  the  burning  forest.  It 
has  ever  been  easy  for  a  brave  man  to  die,  but  it  has 
never  been  possible  for  such  to  remain  in  safety  while 
others  were  yet  in  peril. 

But  where  were  those  he  sought?  Back  yet  in 
the  smoke  and  heat,  still  running;  but  one  at  least  ran 
as  does  one  who  sees  the  goal  ahead,  yet  feels  his  limbs 
stagger  beneath  him,  and  knows  he  must  drop  by  the 
wayside.  "It  is  of  no  use;  I  can  go  no  farther."  At 
the  words  Mr.  Stuart  tottered,  and  seemed  about  to 
fall. 

"Pray,  man,  pray  for  strength.  See!  yonder,  be- 
hind that  turn,  is  the  lake.  We  can,  and  must 
reach  it!" 

Yes;  it  would  indeed  be  hard  to  die  with  safety 
just  in  sight!  Once  more  the  two  summoned  all  their 
waning  strength,  and  now  their  path  lay  over  cinders 
so  hot  they  shrank  in  pain.  It  was  indeed  well  that 
Professor  Williamson  had  gone  to  the  rescue,  else  those 
last  few  hundred  yards  had  not  been  traversed ! 

At  his  approach  (bringing  news  as  he  did  of  the 
safety  of  his  wife  and  Dorothy)  fresh  courage  was 
born,  and  with  courage,  strength;  so,  ever  groping 
forward,  no  matter  how  dense  the  smoke,  the  fainting 
party  at  last  reached  the  water's  edge. 

Mr.  Stuart  and  his  wife  had  just  pushed  off  in  one 
of  the  boats;  the  Professor  was  awaiting  MacByrne 
288 


A  FOREST  FIRE 

in  another,  when  the  latter  bethought  him  of  Princess. 
Unless  she  had  swum  to  the  island,  which  was  un- 
likely, she  must  be  yet  on  the  shore.  He  called  to  her, 
and  something  like  a  moan  smote  his  ear.  It  had  come 
from  Princess,  whose  rapidly  dulling  ear  had  caught 
the  familiar  call,  and,  with  an  obedience  that  would 
fain  defy  death,  she  was  striving  to  arouse  herself. 

It  took  but  a  moment — although  there  were  none 
to  lose — to  fetch  water,  and  as  the  Professor  had  begun 
to  do,  dash  it  over  her;  then  MacByrne  said,  softly, 
"Come,  Princess,  we  must  be  going."  Often  in  the 
years  gone  by  he  had  used  the  same  words;  she  had 
never  failed  him  then,  nor  did  she  now.  As  her 
master  bent  over  her,  calling  to  her,  and  helping  her 
as  best  he  could,  she  slowly  arose.  By  this  time  the 
Professor  had  joined  MacByrne,  and  together,  as  two 
women  with  tender  mother  hearts  might  have  guided 
a  sick  child,  so  did  these  guide  her  down  into  the  water. 
As  the  waves  closed  about  her,  with  something  like  the 
old  proud  toss  of  the  head  she  began  to  swim. 

The  men  were  now  in  the  boat;  the  Professor 
rowed,  while  MacByrne,  his  hand  on  the  bridle,  guided 
and  with  gentle  word  encouraged  the  swimmer.  But, 
alas!  her  movements  were  slow,  and  her  master,  with 
an  overwhelming  sense  of  desolation,  saw  that  a  stream 
of  blood  was  issuing  from  her  nostrils.  The  island 
was  soon  reached,  and  as  her  feet  touched  the  sandy 
edge  Princess  gave  one  last  mute  look  of  appeal  to  him 
she  had  served  so  faithfully,  then  sank  at  his  feet. 
The  shapely  limbs  had  won  their  last  victory!  Mac- 
19  289 


DOROTHY 

Byrne  knelt  by  her,  and,  though  her  eyes  were  clos- 
ing, she  laid  her  head  upon  his  arm  with  a  last  caress- 
ing touch. 

In  one  of  the  boats  lay  a  shawl,  a  part  of  the  wraps 
so  hastily  gathered.  With  the  arm  that  was  free  he 
reached  for  this ;  then  spread  it,  not  only  over  the  dying 
animal's  head,  but  his  own  as  well,  and  the  emotions 
that  at  the  moment  shook  his  overwrought  frame  were 
scarcely  less  violent  than  the  tremors  which,  growing 
fainter  and  fainter,  told  of  the  passing  of  Princess. 

It  was  well  that  the  flight  had  been  so  well  timed. 
The  fugitives  had  barely  landed  when  a  clump  of 
tamaracks,  quite  at  the  water's  edge,  became  a  mass  of 
flame ;  and  it  was  indeed  well  that  so  few  of  the  taller 
trees  had  been  left  standing  else  the  flames  had  over- 
leaped the  space  that  separated  the  island  from  the 
shore.  As  it  was,  the  licking  tongues  of  flame  ran 
along  the  water's  edge,  then  crept  back,  baffled  of 
further  prey. 

The  rescued  party  found  they  were  by  no  means 
the  only  occupants  of  the  island.  It  was  evident  that 
the  morning  flight  of  the  animals  that  had  so  puzzled 
those  that  had  observed  it,  had  been  to  this  same  spot. 

Comrades,  now,  in  a  common  affliction,  they  evinced 
no  fear  of  these  late  comers.  Deer  looked  at  them 
with  wistful  eyes.  Even  a  shaggy  bear  made  friendly 
overtures  to  the  Professor,  to  whom  the  whole  weird 
scene  seemed  more  like  a  printed  page  from  his  library 
than  an  actual  experience. 

What  should  be  done  next?  Clearly  they  could 
290 


A  FOREST  FIRE 

not  remain  long  on  the  island;  hunger  would  forbid 
that.  The  woods  from  which  they  had  fled,  even  with 
the  immediate  dying  out  of  the  fire,  would  be  for  days 
a  smoldering  mass  of  coals,  which  each  passing  breeze 
would  fan  into  flame.  Safety  lay  along  a  single  line. 

On  the  farther  side  of  the  island  the  lake  extended 
a  distance  of  a  few  miles;  beyond  that  there  was  a  nar- 
row passage-way  by  which  the  river  was  reached. 
Once  on  the  river  the  new  camp,  shut  off  from  the  fire 
by  the  water,  could  be  quickly  reached. 

Before  leaving,  there  was  a  duty  that  appealed  to 
MacByrne.  With  the  aid  of  a  spade,  which  fortu- 
nately for  his  purpose  had  been  left  on  the  island  (the 
Professor  had  made  many  a  journey  thither,  attracted 
by  the  strange  flowers  and  shrubs,  he  would  fain  clas- 
sify), he  dug  a  grave  for  Princess. 

After  he  had  smoothed  the  ground  above  her  form, 
he  went  into  the  near-by  thicket,  and,  selecting  a  slen- 
der, smooth  white  birch,  he  planted  it  near-by. 

The  superstitious  yet  argue  that  its  roots  have 
caught  something  of  the  symmetry  crumbling  back  to 
dust  beneath ;  for  in  all  the  Northern  forests  there  is 
to-day  no  tree  more  beautiful,  and  none  so  shapely. 
The  woodsmen  who  know  the  story,  still  point  to  it, 
and  call  it  "The  Princess." 


291 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 
PLANS 

LATER  the  perils,  the  hunger,  the  cold,  the  drench- 
ing rain  that  followed  the  fire,  through  which,  drip- 
ping and  chilled,  they  at  length  made  their  way  to  the 
new  camp — all  past — a  very  thankful  though  worn 
group  gathered  for  their  last  evening  together. 

They  were  now  in  the  Stuart  home.  On  the  mor- 
row the  Williamsons  were  to  start  homeward;  for 
neither  the  fire  nor  subsequent  dangers  had  driven 
from  the  minds  of  either  the  anxiety  each  felt  concern- 
ing the  progress  of  the  plague. 

They  were  about  to  separate  for  the  night  when 
Mr.  Stuart  bade  them  linger,  as  there  was  something 
he  greatly  desired  to  say,  adding,  "If  that  'something' 
deals  too  largely  in  the  personal,  I  must  trust  to  your 
friendship  for  forgiveness." 

With  wondering  expectancy,  each  paused  to  listen. 
In  a  few  sentences  he  told  of  his  early  meeting  with 
MacByrne,  and  of  how,  in  a  certain  conversation,  it 
had  been  borne  in  on  him  that,  notwithstanding  all 
cavil,  all  indifference,  all  flippant  criticisms,  there  was 
an  actual  reality  in  the  life  of  Him  whom  men  call 
"the  Galilean,"  and  further  that  He  still  lived,  the 
most  potent  factor  to-day  in  world  affairs.  "With  this 
292 


PLANS 

conviction,"  Mr.  Stuart  added,  "there  was  born  a  de- 
sire to  follow  that  life."  Then  lowering  his  voice, 
and  speaking  softly,  he  said,  "And  that  I  have  tried 
to  do.  Certain  troublesome  questions,  however,  grew 
out  of  that  attempt.  First,  I  have  never  been  a  man 
of  sentiment,  but  of  business.  To  illustrate  what  I 
mean,  although  I  might  know,  for  myself,  that  alle- 
giance and  loyalty  to  my  new  Master  now  held  sway 
in  my  life,  I  could  not  have  uttered  a  rhapsodical  word, 
or  have  explained  though  I  would  have  acknowledged, 
this  new  allegiance  to  those  of  my  world.  In  the 
midst  of  my  heart-searchings  it  came  to  me  that,  in 
the  Christian  life,  obligations  vary  with  the  character- 
istics of  the  individual,  and,  with  the  thought,  my 
own  duty  became  plain;  as  a  business  man  I  was  to 
serve,  and  in  a  business  way.  Since  that  morning  when 
I  so  reluctantly  gave  the  "Woods  Preacher"  a  half 
hour  to  state  his  fancied  needs,  I  have  been  acquiring 
a  constantly  widening  view  of  life,  and  I  now  see  that 
among  its  responsibilities  are  two  which  seem  para- 
mount; one  of  these  being  to  bring  the  entire  world 
to  a  personal  knowledge  of  the  Christ,  and,  as  a  se- 
quence, to  make  universal  His  civilization.  The  other 
lies  closer  at  home.  Some  way — although  I  confess 
I  do  not  yet  see  how — the  world's  business  ought  to  be 
so  adjusted  that  any  man  who  works  may,  if  he  will 
(probably  there  will  be  to  the  end  of  time  many  who 
will  not),  make  all  out  of  himself  that  it  is  possible 
for  him,  with  his  own  particular  mental  qualifications, 
to  become.  In  the  light  of  advancement  already  made, 
this  need  not  be  considered  Utopian.  In  connection 
293 


DOROTHY 

with  this  last  I  became  greatly  interested  in  Mac- 
Byrne's  efforts  on  behalf  of  the  woodsmen.  Indeed, 
his  success  was  my  arousement.  It  seemed  beyond  be- 
lief that  men  and  conditions  could  be  so  changed;  and 
I  began  to  argue  if  this  could  occur  with  a  single  camp, 
such  a  result  were  worth  striving  for  everywhere  where 
men  work  together  in  large  numbers.  I  know  I  am 
taking  a  good  deal  of  your  time,"  he  added,  apologetic- 
ally; "but  I  assure  you  I  will  never  make  so  long  a 
speech  again,  and  I  have  nearly  done.  It  was  in  reality 
to  study  the  'Woods  Preacher,'  his  work,  and,  above 
all,  his  personality,  that  Mrs.  Stuart  and  I  entered 
upon  the  outing  that  came  so  near  ending  fatally." 

He  paused  as  the  harrowing  remembrance  swept 
over  him,  then  continued :  "There  was  a  moment  when 
I  thought  the  end  of  life  had  come.  It  was  then  I 
heard  the  whispered  word,  'Pray.'  Prayer  has  in  it 
the  element  of  entreaty.  I  did  not  entreat  the  Lord, 
but  I  did  remind  Him  that  He  knew  the  purpose  for 
which  I  had  come  into  the  wood,  and  added,  that  if 
it  was  to  His  glory  to  save  life,  I  knew  He  was  abun- 
dantly able.  Shortly  after,  Professor  Williamson  ap- 
peared, and  then" — he  added  these  words  with  a  smile 
— "I  made  some  promises,  which  I  am  now  about  to 
fulfill,  and  it  was  for  this  I  asked  you  to  linger  while 
I  tell  you  of  certain  tentative  plans. 

"First,"  turning  to  MacByrne,  "we  must  find  some 
one  who  will  be  in  a  measure  to  the  new  camp  what 
you  have  been  to  the  old;  for  I  shall  greatly  need 
you  as  an  adviser  in  those  broader  plans  of  'Gospel 
sending'  (your  remedy,  by  the  way,  for  all  of  man- 

294 


PLANS 

kind's  woes),  and  of  'condition-bettering,'  of  which  I 
have  spoken;  for,  although  I  know  a  new  purpose,  I 
trust  I  shall  be  none  the  less  a  man  of  business.  So 
much  for  the  future;  but  in  the  present  an  immediate 
duty  confronts  me  as  an  employer  of  woodsmen.  A 
better  system  of  forestry  guards  must  be  instituted. 
They  understand  these  matters  better  in  older  countries 
than  do  we,  so,  if  it  meets  your  approval,  we — that  is, 
the  firm — shall  want  you  to  go  to  Germany,  and  per- 
haps Sweden,  and  carefully  investigate  their  excellent 
systems.  I  will  only  add  in  this  connection,  that  I 
hope,  with  Mrs.  Stuart,  to  join  you  at  some  time  and 
point  upon  which  we  may  agree. 

"There  is  yet  another  matter  that  lies  close  to  the 
heart  of  Mrs.  Stuart  and  myself."  He  looked  wist- 
fully at  Dorothy.  "You  seem,  Dorothy,  so  very  like 
our  own,  that  we  covet  for  ourselves  your  sunshine. 
Will  you  not  come  to  us  in  truth?  We  must  be  leav- 
ing these  regions  at  once;  MacByrne  will  also  soon  go. 
If  you  remain  with  the  school,  you  will  be — as  you 
have  not  been — alone,  and  you  do  not  realize  the  soli- 
tude that  awaits  you.  As  our  ward,  or  daughter, 
as  you  may  elect,  there  will  be  advantages  that  will  be 
yours,  to  say  nothing  of  the  pleasures  ordinarily  dear 
to  the  girlish  heart.  Will  you  not  gladden  our  hearts 
by  coming  with  us?" 

Dorothy  sat  for  a  time  in  surprised  silence;  then 
she  arose,  and,  crossing  the  room,  knelt  by  the  couch 
upon  which  Mrs.  Stuart  lay,  and  laid  her  head  down 
close  to  that  lady's  own. 

"You  are  kind,  O  so  kind!"  she  murmured;  "and 
295 


DOROTHY 

do  not,  I  beg  you,  think  me  lacking  in  appreciation; 
but — I  can  not,  O  I  can  not !" 

She  could  not  explain,  even  to  herself,  why  she 
must  give  pain  when  she  would  have  so  gladly  given 
pleasure.  She  did  not  know  that  a  love  of  self-depend- 
ence was  hers  by  birthright.  Besides,  she  had  caught 
the  sweetness  of  the  knowledge  that  in  this  spot — so 
insignificant  in  its  relationship  to  the  rest  of  the  world 
— she  was  needed ;  here  she  might  be  of  use.  And  life 
holds  no  sweeter  sensation ! 

"We  shall  still  love  you,"  Mr.  Stuart  made  reply; 
"shall  still  keep  an  eye  on  you.  It  will  take  Mac- 
Byrne  more  than  a  year  to  complete  his  investigations. 
As  you  are  soon  to  make  the  long-talked-of  trip  to 
Scotland,  we  will  insist  that  you  time  your  visit,  so 
that  we  may  spend  a  part  of  the  next  summer  together 
across  the  sea." 

The  following  day,  as  the  Williamsons  were  leav- 
ing, Mrs.  Stuart  placed  in  the  Professor's  hand  an 
envelope,  saying,  as  she  did  so,  "I  want  to  make  some 
sort  of  a  tangible  thank-offering  for  our  escape." 

The  envelope  was  found  to  contain  a  check,  and 
a  little  slip  of  "instructions,"  which  asked  that  the  in- 
closed be  used  in  building  a  "Hall"  that  should  be 
ample  in  size,  and  contain  all  that  was  necessary  to  a 
happy,  healthful  school  life;  the  same  to  be  used 
throughout  the  years  as  a  home  for  the  girls  in  attend- 
ance upon  the  Seminary.  There  was  a  single  stipu- 
lation, all  else  being  left  to  the  judgment  of  Professor 
Williamson:  "See  that  the  grounds  selected  for  the 
site  are  ample  and  well  shaded." 
296 


PLANS 

In  old  tales  of  magic  the  magician  is  wont  to  rub 
a  magical  stone  or  ring,  and  the  story-teller  immedi- 
ately adds,  "And  lo!  it  was  done."  The  same  re- 
mark might  now  be  made,  and  that  with  the  greatest 
propriety;  for  with  the  magical  gift  of  gold,  strong 
walls  of  brick  and  stone  began  at  once  to  arise. 

There  had  been  no  question  as  to  the  site,  for  what 
bit  of  ground  so  appropriate  as  the  "woodland,"  still 
as  shady,  even  under  mid-summer  sun,  as  in  those  other 
days,  when  a  young  girl,  half  child,  half  woman,  had 
hastened  through  it  from  her  own  home  to  the  one 
she  called  "the  Beeches." 

The  gift  had  been  so  generous  that  no  delay  was 
necessary,  and  in  an  incredibly  short  time  its  welcom- 
ing doors  were  opened.  Later,  with  the  flight  of  years, 
as  groups  of  happy,  free-from-care  girls  thronged  its 
broad  halls,  often,  even  the  most  careless  would  pause 
at  a  certain  landing,  and,  with  an  admiration  that 
never  tired,  gaze  at  a  certain  bright  face  that,  in  a 
spirit  of  friendliness,  seemed  from  its  heavy  frame  to 
call  out  greetings. 

But  all  that  was  in  the  future.  We  must  speedily 
come  back  to  the  present,  and  if  to  the  present,  to  The 
Mills,  where  Dorothy  was  already  quaffing  her  first 
draught  of  loneliness.  The  Stuarts  were  gone,  and 
MacByrne  had  found  it  necessary  to  accompany  them, 
and,  as  had  been  foreseen,  she  was  quite  alone. 

Loneliness  is  soon  forgotten  in  an  anxiety,  and  is 
easier  borne  if  in  its  midst  there  is  a  cherished  plan 
or  hope.  Dorothy  carried  each  of  these  in  her  heart. 
297 


DOROTHY 

She  was  now  in  frequent  correspondence  with  the 
aunts  in  Scotland,  and  Jean,  the  younger  of  the  two, 
had  written  that  when  the  heather  should  bloom  again, 
they  would  except  to  see  "Mary's  little  girl,"  and  the 
"little  girl"  had  promised,  and  found  rare  pleasure  in 
the  promise. 

"Remember,  we  are  to  meet  you  in  Edinburgh, 
after  your  visit  is  over  with  your  relatives,  and  then 
you  are  to  join  us  in  whatever  particular  journey  we 
see  fit  to  make,"  the  Stuarts  had  written  when  they 
had  learned  of  the  "promise." 

"How  glad  I  will  be  to  see  you,  and  how  gladly 
I  will  join  you!"  Dorothy  replied. 

Yet  even  this,  delightful  as  it  was  to  look  forward 
to,  was  not  sufficient  to  allay  the  anxiety  with  which, 
in  the  first  weeks  of  her  isolation,  she  awaited  tidings 
from  the  stricken  cities, — from  the  cities,  she  told  her- 
self; but  in  this  her  heart  rebuked  her.  Still  no  mes- 
sage came  to  cheer;  for  while  in  the  North  heavy  frosts 
were  heralding  the  approach  the  winter,  the  papers  still 
told  of  sickening  heat  in  the  South,  and  of  a  continued 
harvest  of  death. 

Finally  the  message  for  which  she  had  waited  came. 
The  Williamsons,  in  writing  her,  inclosed  a  letter  they 
had  but  that  day  received  from  Robert,  who,  accord- 
ing to  Clay's  prophecy  had  not  died,  though  there  had 
been  weeks  when  no  tidings  came,  and  when  those  who 
loved  him  feared  the  worst.  In  an  overcrowded  hos- 
pital, from  which  the  dead  were  borne  out  hourly,  his 
splendid  physique  had  fought  for  life,  and  won.  With 
convalescence  he  had  left  the  foul  city,  and  the  letter 
298 


PLANS 

was  written  from  a  mountain  point,  where  he  had  gone 
to  recuperate. 

In  it  he  had  briefly  outlined  his  plans.  "You 
know,"  he  wrote,  "how  the  study  of  medicine  has  al- 
ways appealed  to  me.  During  those  dreadful  days, 
when  so  many  bent  themselves  to  the  task  of  beating 
back  the  dread  disease,  it  came  to  me  that  life  could 
know  no  higher  ambition  than  to  hunt  to  its  last  lair 
the  causes  of  the  disease  with  which  we  were  measur- 
ing strength.  My  own  life  is  a  pitifully  small  offering 
to  so  great  an  object;  but  if  I  might,  even  after  years 
of  study,  be  able  to  add  even  a  little  to  the  sum  total 
of  knowledge  upon  the  subject,  it  would  be  a  rich 
reward.  I  think  I  can  study  better  in  Germany,"  he 
went  on;  "so  I  am  planning  to  start  very  soon  to 
Berlin." 

Dorothy  laid  down  the  letter.  Surely  there  had 
never  been  a  more  impersonal  one  written.  Not  a 
word  concerning  one  of  the  friends  who  he  knew 
had  summered  together.  He  was  evidently  making 
his  life  plans,  and  in  them  "sentiment"  had  no  part. 
Still  she  was  not  wholly  sad.  She  looked  out  over  the 
snow-covered  hills,  and  was  conscious  of  a  strange 
thrill  of  hope  that  had  been  born  with  the  reading. 
These  snows  must  melt,  summer  must  come,  and 
"across  the  sea,"  to  quote  from  Aunt  Jean,  "the  heather 
would  bloom,"  and — happy  thought — she  would  be 
there  to  see. 

She  carefully  put  aside  the  letter;  then — though 
why  she  could  not  have  told — she  went  singing  about 
her  task. 

299 


DOROTHY 

She  had  thought  "sentiment"  had  no  part  in  the 
life  plans  Robert  had  so  prosaically  outlined.  In  truth 
it  had  everything.  Through  all  the  years  of  study  he 
had  tenaciously  clung  to  the  slender  thread  upon  which 
his  pitifully  small  love-story  had  hung — his  last  chance 
meeting  with  Dorothy.  Many  an  hour  of  hard  work 
had  been  sweetened  by  the  determination  he  cherished 
to  seek,  at  the  close  of  his  studies,  the  girl  he  had  so 
long  loved,  and  from  her  own  lips  learn  his  fate.  But 
when  at  last  he  might  in  honor  go,  there  had  come  a 
call  to  duty  which  he  could  not  put  aside  and  remain 
true.  With  the  chance  meeting  with  Clay,  of  which 
the  reader  already  knows,  the  slender  hope  he  had 
known  vanished.  For  was  he  not  almost  hastening 
directly  from  the  steamer,  from  which  he  had  but  em- 
barked, to  his  sweetheart's  side?  There  was  a  touch 
of  bitterness  in  the  question  that  intruded  itself: 

"Why  should  this  favored  young  man  have  every- 
thing, even  love,  and  he  nothing?" 

It  had  been  the  emptiness  of  his  own  life,  added 
to  a  sense  of  duty,  that  made  him  brave,  even  to  reck- 
lessness, in  the  weeks  that  followed.  But  death,  always 
perverse,  had  taken  those  who  feared  it,  and  he  who 
might  have  welcomed  it,  came  slowly  back  to  health 
and  strength.  There  came  a  day  when  he  grimly  ac- 
knowledged that  he  was  to  live,  and  as  grimly  resolved 
that  the  life  thrust  upon  him  should  be  a  useful  one; 
hence,  after  they  were  matured,  his  letter  of  plans  to 
the  Professor.  It  was  not  like  him  to  hurry  off  to 
another  continent  without  a  word  of  farewell  to 
friends.  But  his  heart  was  very  sore,  and  he  dreaded 
300 


PLANS 

a  sight  of  the  happy,  self-satisfied  face  of  Clay  Worth- 
ington. 

Just  before  he  sailed,  he  was  greatly  cheered  by  a 
letter  from  MacByrne,  who  did  not  fail  to  express 
his  satisfaction  at  the  plans  for  further  study.  In  the 
fewest,  briefest  words  he  told  of  the  change  in  his 
own  life.  It  was  with  the  feeling  that  certainly  the 
marvelous  still  held  sway,  that  he  read  the  closing 
words,  "I  am  to  go  in  the  spring  to  Germany.  Sup- 
pose we  plan — before  another  winter's  snows — for  a 
trip  together  through  the  Schwartzwald?"  Surely  the 
world  was  a  small  place,  when  friends  could  so  easily 
arrange  a  meeting  on  the  farther  side. 

Surely  (though  he  had  forgotten  it)  there  were 
friends  who  were  true;  and,  if  friends,  then  life  must 
be  worth  living.  With  this  he  observed  that  the  sun 
was  shining,  that  the  skies  were  blue,  and  that  birds 
were  singing  outside  his  window.  He  arose,  and,  as 
he  threw  his  long  arms  over  his  head,  he  noted  that 
they  did  not  now  drop,  as  they  had  dropped,  helplessly 
at  his  side. 

"Yes,  he  was  to  live,"  he  found  himself  saying.  A 
shade  of  bitterness  passed  over  his  face.  Live,  with  the 
zest  of  living  gone.  But  what  was  he  that  he  should 
repine;  should,  like  a  child,  insist  on  mere  happiness? 
If  there  was  such  a  thing  as  fate  it  might  rob  him  of 
much,  but  it  should  not  take  from  him  the  joy  of  work, 
and  of  that  which  has  ever  been  its  reward — Achieve- 
ment. 


3OI 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

"OUAH  FOLKS" 

ON  a  certain  evening,  following  the  summer  spent 
in  the  woods,  as  the  winter  winds  whistled  among  and 
shook  the  leaf-bare  trees  at  the  "Beeches,"  the  Professor 
and  his  wife  set  for  themselves  a  certain  task,  born  of 
a  suggestion  of  MacByrne's.  Once  during  the  past 
summer,  as  they  rode  together  and  talked  of  Robert's 
work  in  the  fever-stricken  city,  MacByrne,  after  a 
silence,  had  said : 

"Some  time,  when  you  have  leisure,  I  wish  you 
would  look  through  that  old  chest  of  drawers  Robert 
left  with  you.  I  am  sure  you  will  find  in  it  an  old, 
yellow  roll  of  papers.  His  mother  began  once  show- 
ing them  to  me,  and  telling  me  of  a  strange  family 
history;  but  we  were  interrupted.  Robert  himself 
came  in.  She  put  the  papers  aside  at  his  approach,  say- 
ing, 'He  must  be  older.'  With  that,  she  closed  the 
drawer.  If,  as  I  suspect,  the  roll  contains  something 
in  regard  to  his  ancestry,  he  ought  by  all  means  to 
know  it." 

The  Williamsons  had  been  very  busy  upon  their 
return,  and  the  matter  had  wholly  slipped  from  their 
mind.  But  the  letter  and  news  of  Robert's  sailing  re- 
called it,  and  they  took  the  first  moment  of  leisure 
to  make  the  search.  The  indicated  roll  was  soon 
302 


"OUAH  FOLKS" 

found,  and  as  Mrs.  Wiliamson — to  whom  the  search 
had  strongly  appealed — smoothed  out  the  yellow, 
wrinkled  page,  she  gave  a  startled  cry  of  surprise. 

Her  wondering  eyes  had  fallen  upon  a  device  at 
the  left-hand  corner  of  the  page.  It  was  an  azure 
shield,  divided  into  quarters,  in  one  of  which  a  pierced 
Saracen's  head  showed  dimly;  in  another,  a  cross  and 
a  spear  hinted  at  the  cause  of  the  other's  discomfiture. 
The  other  two  quarters  seemed  a  mere  jumble  of  aim- 
less lines.  Underneath,  in  quaint  old  English,  mini- 
ature letters  spelled  out  the  laconic  sentence,  "I  wait." 

"Why,  that  is  our  very  own  family  crest,"  she 
called  out,  "given,  so  I  have  been  told,  to  an  ancestor 
who  fought  with  Richard  in  the  Crusades.  We  keep 
it  only  as  a  souvenir.  We  have  been  for  two  gener- 
ations too  good  Americans  to  care  for  it;  but  how 
comes  it  here?  No  one  would  care  to  use  it  if  it  did 
not  belong  to  them." 

She  turned  eagerly  again  to  the  yellow  page,  and 
the  story  she  found  written  was  indeed  a  strange  one. 
Two  brothers,  it  seemed,  early  in  the  century,  had 
come  from  England  and  settled  in  Virginia.  They  had 
differed,  as  brothers  had  recently  differed,  upon  that 
subject  so  fraught  with  sorrow  from  the  beginning — 
slavery.  The  one  had  taken  it  to  his  heart,  and  loved 
it;  the  other  had  hated  it,  and  had  sworn  he  would 
have  nothing  to  do  with  it,  and,  the  better  to  carry  out 
this  resolve,  after  a  dispute,  of  which  the  writer  evi- 
dently did  not  care  to  speak,  had  emigrated  to  the 
mountains  of  Kentucky,  and  in  that  act  had  died  to 
his  family. 

303 


DOROTHY 

That  this  man — evidently  the  writer,  and  the  sub- 
sequent father  of  a  race  of  Kentucky  mountaineers — 
had  been  a  near  relative  of  the  woman  who  read,  was 
beyond  doubt.  The  story  coincided  with  family  his- 
tory already  known  to  her.  In  her  childhood  she  had 
heard  of  this  erratic  kinsman,  who,  it  was  said,  had 
forsworn  their  civilization.  Perhaps  he  had  not  meant 
so  fully  to  do  so.  Perhaps  in  the  new  life  there  had 
been  hardships  of  which  he  had  not  thought;  perhaps, 
too,  there  had  been  a  poverty  which  his  proud  spirit 
would  not  acknowledge.  Whatever  the  reason  he  had 
surely  disappeared,  and  from  the  day  of  his  departure 
his  family  had  known  him  no  more.  But  that  until  the 
day  of  his  death  he  had  cherished  a  family  pride,  the 
well-preserved  heirloom  and  the  written  statement  were 
proof. 

Mrs.  Williamson  recalled  the  fact  that  the  little 
mother  who,  by  an  irony  of  fate,  had  so  recently  died 
in  the  Southland,  in  explanation  of  the  possession  of 
so  beautiful  an  article,  had  used  the  words  "my  grand- 
father." So  they  had  been  close  kinswomen;  and  the 
boy  Robert,  who  had  so  appealed  to  her  scholarly  hus- 
band, as  he  had  not  to  her,  was  also  her  own. 

"Had  I  only  known,"  she  moaned,  "how  different 
all  would  have  been!" 

"Different  perhaps,"  her  husband  replied,  "but  cer- 
tainly not  better.  As  it  is,  Robert  is  doubly  educated. 
He  is  not  only  book-taught,  but  he  has  besides  gelf- 
reliance.  Together  these  make  a  rare  heritage." 

She  looked  for  a  moment  into  his  face,  then  said 
slowly:  "Perhaps  you  are  right.  I  am  coming  to  look 

304 


"OUAH  FOLKS" 

at  things  differently ;  but  think  of  the  poor  little  mother 
and  of  her  toil !" 

"Yes;  there  is  where  the  pathos  lies,  unless  it  is 
hidden  here,"  and  he  touched  the  yellow  old  page 
that  at  last  had  given  up  its  secret. 

"Aunt  Violet  must  know  this,"  Mrs.  Williamson 
said  at  length.  "She  really  knows  more  of  the  family 
history  than  I ;  for  her  mother  was  brought  by  my 
grandmother  into  the  Worthington  family  at  her  mar- 
riage. She  cared  for  her,  and  for  my  mother,  as  Violet 
has  always  cared  for  me.  Depend  upon  it,  she  will 
have  heard  of  this  erratic  Robert." 

So  saying,  she  went  at  once  to  Violet's  own  quar- 
ters, where  she  found  that  individual  warming  her 
rheumatic  limbs  in  her  own  particular  corner  of  the 
wide-mouthed  chimney. 

"Come,"  she  said,  "I  have  something  strange  to 
tell  you,  and  then  to  show  you ;"  with  this  she  led  her 
to  the  chest,  and  as  she  again  opened  its  drawers  she 
rehearsed  once  more  the  story  she  had  just  learned. 

"What 's  dat  you  's  tellin'  me?"  Her  eyes  began  to 
bulge  with  horror,  and  she  made  a  quick  movement 
from  the  chest.  "You  heerd  from  Ole  Marsa  Robert? 
Him  that  was  druv  plum'  away?  That  cayn't  be,  Mis' 
Millicent.  He  's  been  daid  dis  many  a  yeah.  Mebbe 
it  is  true,  though,"  she  falteringly  admitted,  "  'cause 
dey  uset  to  say  his  sperrit  come  regular  to  de  Tost,' 
whah  it  all  happened." 

"Now,  Violet,  I  can  not  imagine  what  you  mean 
by  the  Post.  I  have  told  you  many  times  that  there 
are  no  'sperrits'  that  we  need  fear;  but  what  I  want 

20  0 


DOROTHY 

is  to  tell  you,  that  I  am  sure  that  this  story  that  has 
been  hidden  here  is  a  true  one.  You  must  know  some- 
thing of  this  man's  going.  Try  to  remember.  Did 
you  ever  hear  your  mother  speak  of  this  uncle  of  my 
father's  who  disappeared  ?  I  heard  something  about  it 
when  I  was  a  child.  It  seems  like  a  dream  to  me." 

Violet  hesitated,  and  well  she  might,  for  the  story 
of  "Ole  Marsa  Robert"  had  been  a  favorite  one  around 
many  a  cabin  hearth;  but  it  was  one,  each  sable  story 
teller  had  known,  could  not  be  mentioned  "befoh' 
their  bettahs." 

Finally  she  began:  "Mis'  Millicent,  I  doan'  'spect 
I  was  bawn  when  dis  ting  you  's  askin'  about  happened. 
But  o'  nights,  when  de  wind  would  holler  and  screech 
around  de  cabins,  somebody  would  most  like  stop  and 
say,  kin'  o'  low,  'Dat  's  Marsa  Robert's  sperrit'  and 
den,  while  us  chillun's  would  scrouch  around  de  fire 
too  skeered  to  whimper,  dey  would  tell  how  it  come  to 
happen. 

"You  see  my  mammy  had  come  ovah  to  youh  folks' 
place  with-  her  Mis'  Clahibel,  to  take  keer  of  her. 
Marsa  Robert,  and  Marsa  George, — dey  lived  together. 
De  ole  Missus  had  died  den;  and  Mis'  Jane,  she  was 
de  young  missus  dat  Mis'  Clahibel  wras  visitin'.  And 
Mammy  she  expected  Mis'  Clahibel  was  a-goin'  to 
marry  Marsa  Robert.  He  was  de  older,  and  he  was 
mighty  fine,  an — an — "  again  Violet  hesitated — "he 
was  always  a-wantin'  to  set  his  people  free;  but  Marsa 
George  would  n't  'low  it. 

"Marsa  Robert  was  mighty  good  to  his  people.  In 
partickler  he  never  'lowed  any  of  'era  whipped,  and 

306 


"OUAH  FOLKS" 

Marsa  George  had  to  do  as  he  said.  But  one  day 
Marsa  Robert  and  Mis'  Clahibel  was  out  riding,  and 
some  way  Marsa  George  was  in  a  turrible  tantrum; 
'pears  like  dey  could  n't  please  him  no  how ;  and  Marsa 
Robert's  own  'boy' — Sam,  dey  called  him — got  sassy, 
and  Marsa  George,  he  up  and  sent  him  to  de  'Post,' 
and  writ  a  letter  for  de  ooerseer  to  lay  it  on  good  and 
plenty;  and  he  did;  and  while  de  'boy'  was  a-moanin' 
(dey  always  said  he  was  mighty  nigh  killed),  Marsa 
Robert  and  Mis'  Clahibel  come  a-ridin'  up  as  big  an' 
as  happy  as  you  please.  Marsa  Robert,  all  at  once, 
he  heard  de  noise,  and  dey  say  as  how  he  went  tearin' 
down  de  gravel  walk,  and  left  Mis'  Clahibel  to  get  off 
best  way  she  could. 

"I  doan'  know  all  dat  happened  in  dem  few  min- 
utes; but  Marsa  George,  he  come  out  and  den  dere 
was  words,  and  finally  Robert  he  struck  George  with 
his  riding  whip,  cut  his  face  awful;  den  dah  was  a 
fight,  and  Mis'  Clahibel  she  run  in  between  'em,  and 
den  somehow  Marsa  Robert  he  left.  Dey  said  he 
nevah  come  back,  but  Mammy  she  knowed  bettah,  for 
one  night  he  come,  and  give  her  a  lettah,  and  said, 
'You  take  it  to  Mis'  Clahibel,  and  I  will  wait  heah;' 
and  Mammy  did,  and  Mis'  Clahibel  she  read  it,  and 
tore  it  in  two  and  said,  'Xell  him  I  am  going  to  marry 
his  brother  George,'  and  sho'  enuff,  she  did;  and 
honey,  yo'  knows  yo'  grandmother's  name  was  Clah- 
ibel." 

Aunt  Violet  had  been  far  away  in  the  past.  Sud- 
denly she  came  to  the  present. 

"Mis'  Millicent,  you  doan'  know  what  will  hap- 

307 


DOROTHY 

pen.  If  I  was  you  I  wouldn't  touch  de  olc  chest  any 
moah.  It  ain't  no  kind  o'  good  luck.  Marsa  Robert 
dey  all  said  was  a  mighty  good  man;  but  it  'pears  to 
me,  when  any  one  has  been  daid  as  long  as  he  has, 
dey  ought  to  let  othah  folks  alone,  and  not  come 
spookin'  around." 

"Violet" — the  master  was  speaking  almost  sternly 
— "I  will  not  have  you  afraid  of  this  harmless  bit  of 
wood.  We  have  told  you  the  story  it  has  hidden,  that 
you  might  know  that  the  other  Robert  who  brought 
it  to  us,  whom  you  know  and  I  think  love,  is  a  de- 
scendant of  the  man  of  whom  you  have  told  us,  and 
so  one  of  our  very  own  folks." 

"What 's  dat  you  say?  Ouah  ohn  folks?  Ouah 
ohn  folks?"  She  arose,  stood  for  a  moment  in  evident 
amazement,  in  which  fear  held  a  large  place. 

"Come,  Auntie,"  her  mistress  added,  "look  in  these 
drawers,  and  see  for  yourself  there  is  nothing  that  can 
harm." 

"No,  chile,  I  doan'  tech  dead  men's  things,  and 
you  'd  bettah  not."  With  that  she  hobbled  off  mut- 
tering as  she  went.  "Ouah  folks !  humph !  There  's 
a  heap  of  strange  things  a-happenin'.  Please  Gawd! 
I  wish  I  was  back  in  old  Virginny." 

The  two,  who  stood  watching  her,  smiled  as  she 
disappeared  through  the  doorway;  then  each  turned 
to  the  chest.  "What  stories  it  could  tell!"  remarked 
the  Professor,  as  he  gently  touched  its  smooth  surface. 

"I  am  wondering,  if  this  Robert  so  suddenly  left 
his  home,  how  this  came  into  his  possession." 

"We  will  never  know,"  replied  the  Professor; 
308 


"OUAH  FOLKS" 

"but  I  have  a  theory  that  will  do  as  well  as  another. 
It  looks  like  a  woman's  belonging.  Perhaps  the  self- 
exiled  man's  mother  brought  it  with  her  from  her 
English  home;  perhaps  the  'boy'  who  was  whipped — " 

"Small  cause  for  so  much  trouble,"  interrupted  his 
wife,  and  then  smiled,  half  in  defiance,  as  she  caught 
his  reproving  eye. 

"Brought  it  to  him,  let  us  say  by  night,  with  other 
articles  necessary  for  his  immediate  comfort." 

"Let  us  hope  he  had  the  grace  to  serve  him  faith- 
fully until  his  death,"  Mrs.  Millicent  yet  added. 

"Ah!  you  are  incorrigible,  I  fear." 

They  were  carefully  putting  away  the  yellow  roll, 
when  the  Professor  spoke  yet  once  more. 

"So  it  was  not  altogether  principle  that  sent  your 
long-ago  relative  into  exile,  but,  the  rather,  principle 
set  on  fire,  made  effective  by  love.  Ah!  how  often 
that  has  happened  in  the  history  of  the  world!  Love 
and  Principle;  they  have  made  and  unmade  nations." 

With  the  words  his  hand  strayed  lovingly  over  the 
black  silken  hair  of  the  erstwhile  proud  daughter  of  the 
South.  At  the  touch  she  turned  and  looked  into  his 
eyes.  There  must  have  been  that  in  the  look  that 
greatly  touched  him,  for  he  said,  still  with  his  arm 
about  her:  "Ah!  how  I  pity  that  Robert!  He  lost 
not  only  his  patrimony,  his  place  in  the  world,  but 
'Clahibei:  " 

Robert  Stirling,  with  the  ocean  between  himself 
and  his  native  land,  might  well  have  re-echoed  Aunt 
Violet's  plaint,  "Dere  's  mighty  strange  things  a-hap- 

309 


DOROTHY 

penin',"  when  he  read  the  strange  story  which  the  Pro- 
fessor lost  no  time  in  writing  him. 

As  a  lad  he  had  known  scarcely  nothing  of  his 
family  history.  (His  mother  had  been  strangely  reti- 
cent. Could  she  have  guessed  the  relationship?)  He 
dimly  remembered  that  in  the  mountain  home  there 
had  been  some  books  and  a  few  portraits,  that,  now 
that  he  recalled  them,  hinted  of  better  days. 

As  he  mused  on  the  strange  story  brought  to  light, 
he  was  conscious  of  two  distinct  sensations — one  of 
fresh  sorrow  for  the  loyal  mother  that,  in  poverty  and 
hardships,  he  well  remembered,  had  brought  him  up. 
(He  had  no  remembrance  of  his  father;  he  had  been 
told  that  he  died  when  he  was  a  mere  babe.)  The 
other  was  of  joy  that  they — that  is,  his  mother  and 
himself — had  lived  their  life  at  Middletown,  without 
suspecting  the  relationship. 

Had  it  been  otherwise  they  might  have  been  of- 
fered charity,  might  have  been  offered  entrance  into 
a  family,  that  at  heart  felt  scorn.  He  flushed  at  the 
thought,  and  then  a  sweet  joy  swept  over  him, — they 
had  been  spared  that  humiliation. 

"It  were  better,  a  thousand  times  better,"  he  told 
himself,  "that  matters  were  as  they  were."  It  needed 
no  tie  of  blood  to  increase  the  love,  the  respect,  even 
reverence,  he  felt  for  Professor  Williamson  as  for  his 
dainty  kinswoman.  He  had  ever  been  vaguely  uneasy 
in  her  presence.  He  believed  now,  that,  though  a  boy, 
he  had  unconsciously  resented  the  fact  that  she  should 
be  so  well  cared  for  while  his  own  mother  was  bent 
310 


"OUAH  FOLKS" 

with  toil;  that  her  hands  should  be  so  beautiful,  and 
the  fingers  of  the  other  gnarled  and  work-worn. 

As  for  Clay,  he  smiled  grimly  at  certain  mem- 
ories. Was  it  true,  then,  that  history  had  a  habit  of 
repeating  itself?  The  elder  Robert  had  yielded  home, 
possessions,  love,  all.  Must  he,  the  younger,  re-enact 
the  whole  bitter  drama?  With  him  there  had  been 
neither  home  nor  possessions  to  yield;  but  there  had 
been  that  other,  that  strangely  sweet  dream,  that  had 
at  once  swayed  and  tormented  his  life, — that  had  been 
yielded.  Should  the  analogy  go  further! 

"No!"  he  shut  his  lips  firmly.  He  need  not,  he 
would  not  die  to  the  world!  Men  had  lived  and 
wrought,  without  home,  without  love ;  so  could  he,  so 
would  he!  And  with  that,  he  turned  resolutely 
towards  the  bare  table  before  which  he  sat.  His  stu- 
dent lamp  stood  near-by.  He  trimmed  it  afresh,  then 
opened  a  book.  Henceforth  he  was  to  know  but  a 
single  object. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 
FINALLY 

"And  love  can  never  lose  its  own."— WHITTIER. 

Two  MEN,  long  parted  had  at  last  met,  and  after 
the  meeting  heart  was  speaking  to  heart. 

There  had  been,  on  the  part  of  one,  hours  of  hur- 
ried travel;  of  the  other,  restless  waiting,  impatient 
anxiety,  and  while  he  listened  he  had  caught  the  sound 
of  a  footstep  on  the  stair  outside;  and  then — had  felt  a 
handclasp  so  warm,  so  true,  that  at  the  touch  the 
years  rolled  back  as  with  a  flood. 

How  much  these  years  had  brought !  To  the  elder 
of  the  two,  trial,  victory;  to  him  who  had  been  a  boy, 
manhood,  and,  as  it  is  ever,  manhood's  crosses;  yet  to 
him,  as  to  the  other  victory!  Ah!  how  much  there 
was  to  tell,  and  to  be  told! 

The  room  in  which  they  had  met  was  very  small, 
but  it  was  as  immaculately  clean  as  its  daily  bath  of 
soap  and  water,  administered  at  the  hands  of  a  faith- 
ful "madchen,"  could  make  it.  The  four  posts  of  the 
bed — the  principal  article  of  furniture  in  the  room — 
reached  almost  to  the  ceiling.  Piled  upon  this  was 
a  series  of  feather-beds,  supposed,  from  a  local  stand- 
point, to  represent  the  acme  of  nocturnal  comfort.  A 
table,  a  shelf  of  books,  and  two  chairs  completed  the 
312 


FINALLY 

furnishings.  Through  the  narrow  panes  of  glass  in 
the  single  small  window  one  could  look  down  upon  a 
busy  street,  through  which,  from  early  dawn  until  late 
at  night,  a  never-ending  procession  of  people  journeyed. 

By  one  of  the  curious  coincidences  with  which  life 
abounds,  the  "Woods  Preacher"  and  Robert  Stirling 
had  met  in  a  little  room  in  the  students'  quarters  in 
Berlin.  Though  the  street  scenes  below  were  strange, 
at  least  to  the  elder,  they  passed  without  notice;  so  is 
it  always  when  friends  long  parted  meet. 

The  older  man  was  very  gray;  otherwise  the  touch 
of  time  had  been  gentle.  Alertness  characterized  each 
motion,  while  his  strong,  self-possessed  face  was  as 
eager  as  that  of  the  younger  man  with  whom  he  talked. 

"Now,  you  must  tell  me  everything,"  Robert  had 
said,  when  the  "madchen,"  who  had  brought  in  the 
inevitable  rolls  and  coffee,  had  retired. 

"But  where  shall  I  begin?"  MacByrne  asked  in 
reply;  then,  after  a  moment's  thought,  added,  "Perhaps 
it  would  be  as  wrell  first  to  make  plainer  than  was  pos- 
sible in  a  letter,  by  what  rare  chance  I  am  here." 

In  a  few  sentences  he  told  of  his  last  summer's 
guests,  of  the  weeks  spent  together,  of  the  forest  fire, 
and  of  Mr.  Stuart's  generous  plans.  All  this  was,  no 
doubt,  of  great  interest  to  him  who  listened,  but  there 
was  yet  a  hungry,  unsatisfied  look  in  that  young  man's 
eyes. 

"Perhaps,"  the  older  man  continued,  "you  would 
like  to  know  of  Middletown,  and  of  the  'Beeches,' 
youh  folks'  now,  as  Aunt  Violet  would  say;  for  you 
must  know  I  have  seen  them  all  in  person.  I  hardly 

313 


DOROTHY 

think,  though,  from  the  standpoint  of  personal  vanity, 
the  visit  paid.  Middletown  is  so  changed  there  is 
hardly  a  vestige  of  the  dear  old  village  left.  It  is  full 
of  'new'  people,  who  looked  me  over  as  if  speculating 
on  my  possible  possession  of  a  pocket-book,  and  of  its 
probable  condition.  One  dapper  little  chap — that  had 
recently  come  from  somewhere — seized  on  me,  as  a 
prospective  buyer  of  a  corner  lot!  The  sarcasm  of 
it!  Clearly  I  had  no  business  there.  Even  Long 
David—" 

''Tell  me  about  Dave."  Robert  was  smiling  at 
the  vision,  the  name  had  conjured  up. 

With  an  access  of  simulated  dignity,  MacByrne 
made  answer:  "You  will  have  to  drop  that  familiar 
form  of  address;  the  gentleman  in  question  is  now 
'The  Honorable  David  Johnson.'  I  found  even  him 
too  busy  for  much  of  a  talk,  though  he  did  grip  my 
hand  till  it  hurt  for  days.  He  was  in  the  midst  of 
the  campaign  that  I  have  since  seen,  by  the  papers, 
gave  him  the  honor  he  sought.  However,  I  had  the 
privilege  of  a  drive  over  'The  Knobs'  with  him  one 
half-day;  said  he  had  a  little  'business'  on  hands. 
During  that  drive  he  relaxed  and  seemed  more  like 
the  'David'  we  once  knew,  and  I  could  easily  imagine 
I  saw  him  holding  forth  as  of  old  on  one  of  Uncle 
John's  nail-kegs.  Suddenly,  in  the  midst  of  a  pretty 
good  history  of  Middletown's  new  growth,  he  broke 
off,  and  said,  'Bless  me !  there  's  a  man  I  Ve  got  to 
see;'  and,  throwing  the  'lines'  to  me,  he  was  off  across 
the  newly  plowed  .field.  I  watched  with  a  good  deal 
of  interest  the  little  comedy  about  to  be  enacted.  First, 

3H 


FINALLY 

from  the  very  apparent  gestures,  I  knew  David  was 
making  certain  oracular  remarks  about  the  weather 
and  the  crop  prospects;  from  another  act,  I  gathered 
he  was  expressing  his  satisfaction  at  the  'lay  of  the 
land.'  He  then  dropped  a  few  suggestions  as  to  how 
to  plow,  in  order  most  effectually  to  kill  the  weeds, 
and  illustrated  his  theory  by  turning  a  furrow,  a  full 
half-length  of  the  field.  Then  he  patted  on  the  head 
the  freckled,  sunburnt  lad  that  stood  looking  on,  drink- 
ing in  each  separate  item  of  the  welcome  interruption. 
I  was  sure  he  was  saying,  'Likely  chap  that, — I  reckon 
you  're  'lowin'  to  send  him  in,  and  let  them  professors 
dress  him  down.  Better  do  it.'  By  this  time  he  was 
ready  for  his  own  business,  and  grew  suddenly  confi- 
dential. I  finally  saw  the  farmer  nod  approval,  and 
from  the  'returns,'  I  have  n't  a  bit  of  doubt  he  ratified 
that  approval  on  election-day.  David  looked  sort  o' 
sheepish  when  he  came  back;  but  I  pretended  to  have 
been  deeply  interested  in  the  hills  beyond." 

"But  I  should  think  the  State  was  in  a  bad  way 
when  such  as  he  come  to  the  front,"  Robert  objected. 

"Why,  no!  David  is  as  good  as  any,  and — you 
have  been  studying  and  learning  some  things  during 
the  years,  have  n't  you  ?  Well,  so  has  he.  There  has 
been  a  great  widening  of  vision  on  the  part  of  many 
in  Middletown.  This  broader  outlook  had  its  birth 
in  the  Seminary,  which  has  taught  many  more  than 
have  been  enrolled,  and  have  been  fed  by  the  changes 
the  village  has  seen.  When  we  knew  him,  David  had 
not  come  into  his  own — that  is  all." 

At  this  Robert  was  silent.     He  was  secretly  won- 

3*5 


DOROTHY 

dering  if  the  years  would  bring  him  the  faith,  the  con- 
fidence in  humanity  that  the  man  by  his  side  knew, 
and  had  known  for  so  many  years. 

"What  about  his  wife?"  Robert  at  length  aroused 
himself  to  ask. 

Again  MacByrne  laughed  his  hearty,  gladsome 
laugh.  He  knew  of  what  Robert  was  thinking. 
"Well,  I  tell  you,  honestly  at  first,  I  did  not  at  all 
recognize  in  the  well-dressed  woman  that  sat  at  the 
head  of  the  table,  and,  with  an  'I  have  always  done  it' 
air,  rang  for  the  maid,  and  ordered  the  'courses.' 
Though  it  must  be  that  the  other,  she  of  the  touseled 
gowns  and  sharp  voice,  had  died,  and  David  had  al- 
lowed himself  to  be  'comforted.'  But,  bless  you,  she 
was  the  same  woman  we  knew,  and  among  the  startling 
changes  that  have  come  to  her  is  actual  pride  in  her 
husband. 

"One  thing  that  comforted  me,"  MacByrne  con- 
tinued, "there  was  but  little,  if  any,  change  distinguish- 
able either  at  the  'Beeches'  or  with  Cousin  Sarah. 
Some  folks,  you  know,  don't  need  no  change;  spoil 
them  if  they  did.  Cousin  Sarah  is  the  same  active, 
useful  woman  as  of  yore.  I  noticed,  though,  that  now- 
adays she  wears  a  black  silk  gown  to  Church  instead 
of  the  bombazine  of  precious  memories.  When  I  told 
her  I  was  to  see  you,  her  eyes  filled  with  tears.  If 
you  ever  go  back,  Robert,  Cousin  Sarah  has  a  welcome 
ready  for  you. 

"I  found  the  'Beeches'  in  a  high  state  of  excitement, 
especially  Aunt  Violet.  She  was  sitting  in  state  in  the 
kitchen  directing,  in  no  very  gentle  tones,  an  army  of 

316 


FINALLY 

servants,  or,  to  be  exact,  three  or  four  of  her  own 
race.  She  was  in  her  happiest  mood,  for  there  was  'big 
goings-on*  in  progress.  For  Marsa  Clay — you  re- 
member Clay — Mrs.  Williamson's  brother?" — the 
elder  man  shot  a  quick,  penetrating  glance  at  the 
younger. 

Robert,  try  hard  as  he  might  to  appear  uncon- 
cerned, felt  his  throat  tightening  as  he  nodded  an 
affirmative. 

"Well,  Clay  was  about  to  bring  home  his  bride." 

At  the  announcement  Robert  arose,  and,  uncon- 
scious of  the  eyes  that  watched,  began  a  series  of  nerv- 
ous strides  up  and  down  the  room. 

Had  he  not  expected  this?  Had  he  not*  known 
that  it  must  come?  Why,  then,  should  a  chill  settle 
at  his  heart?  But  this  would  never  do.  After  an 
effort  at  composure  he  sat  down,  and  in  as  calm  a  voice 
as  he  could  summon,  he  said,  "I  would  have  thought 
you  would  have  staid  until — she — came." 

"They  appeared  to  think  it  ill  of  me  that  I  did 
not;  but,  in  truth,  I  never  succeeded  in  getting  close 
to  that  young  man,  and  so  had  no  desire;  but  it  did 
my  heart  good  to  witness  the  joy  of  Aunt  Violet.  She 
could  not  say  enough  in  praise  of  the  expected  bride. 
'One  of  ouah  very  best  families,'  she  assured  me  over 
and  over.  'Ole  neighbors,  the  Aliens  was.  Why,  her 
mothah  was  just  like  a  sistah  to  de  Missus.  Why,  I 
done  held  that  sweet  baby  in  my  arms  many  a  time, 
and  now  Massa  Clay  has  done  hunted  her  up,  and  is 
a-fetchin'  her  to  us.  'Liza!  look  there!  doan'  be  drop- 
pin'  dat  cake-dough  you  's  a-mixin'.  You  doan'  need  to 

317 


DOROTHY 

be  listenin'  when  yoah  bettahs  is  a-talkinV  Then  she 
added  fervently,  'Bless  Gawd!  de  wah,  it  spiled  a  lot, 
but  it  could  n'  spile  folks' " 

But  Robert  had  little  interest  in  Violet's  happiness. 
His  head  was  spinning.  "Clay  married,"  he  was  say- 
ing under  his  breath;  "and  the  bride  not  Dorothy!" 

Finally  his  lips  framed  a  single  question,  and  that 
question  a  single  word,  "Dorothy?" 

"Is  at  present  at  her  mother's  old  home  in  Scot- 
land. I  have  never  known  anything  more  pathetic  in 
life  than  that  girl's  heart-hunger  for  her  own  people. 
This  visit  is  the  result  of  years  of  planning  and  wait- 
ing." 

At  last  Robert  broke  the  silence  that  had  fallen 
upon  the  two.  His  voice  sounded  far  away  and 
strangely  constrained.  "Forgive  me  if  I  seem  inhos- 
pitable; but  I  start  for  Scotland  to-night,  I  will  not 
endure  this  another  hour  without  action.  You  do  not 
know  how  I  have  loved  her,  how  I  have  suffered.  I 
thought  they — that  is,  she  and  Clay — were  lovers.  I 
MUST  know."  And  at  the  words  he  turned  to  busy 
himself  with  preparations  for  a  hasty  journey. 

MacByrne  laid  his  kindly  hand  upon  the  young 
man's  shoulders,  and,  with  that  rare  smile  that  had 
comforted  many  a  heartsick  woodsman,  he  said:  "Go; 
let  nothing  hinder.  I  have  long  suspected  what  you 
have  just  told  me." 

With  that  he  walked  to  the  window.  Before  him 
was  the  gray  German  sky.  Below,  in  the  crowded 
streets,  busy,  happy  groups  touched  elbows;  but  he 
saw  none  of  these.  Rather  it  was  a  far-away  scene 

318 


FINALLY 

that  held  his  vision.  An  expanse  of  water;  and  then, 
beyond,  plains  and  forests;  and  then  a  single  hillock, 
over  which  grass  had  grown  for  many  a  year.  As  the 
vision  continued,  he  saw  her  who,  in  his  youth,  he  had 
seen  buried  beneath  that  same  sod. 

"There  are  souls,"  he  said  softly  to  himself,  "that 
even  death  hath  not  power  to  separate;  for 

'  Life  is  ever  Lord  of  death, 
And  Love  shall  never  lose  its  own.' 

May  God  speed  the  boy's  errand!"  he  added,  rever- 
ently. 

The  stuffy  compartment  cars  had  never  seemed  so 
close  to  Robert  as  upon  the  journey  he  had  so  sud- 
denly undertaken.  To  add  to  his  discomfort,  memory 
began  to  assert  itself.  For  the  hundredth  .time  he 
found  himself  going  over  the  links  of  that  chain  which 
had,  as  he  thought,  so  certainly  bound  Clay  and 
Dorothy  together.  There  were  two  pivotal  points 
about  which  the  whole  matter  revolved.  Either,  de- 
spite the  evidences  of  his  senses,  the  whole  had  been 
a  mere  chimera  of  the  brain,  or,  at  the  last,  Clay  always 
whimsical,  had  forsaken  her.  With  this,  which  he 
found  impossible  to  dislodge,  came  another.  Though 
she  had  loved  Clay,  might  she  not  in  her  disappoint- 
ment turn  to  him;  for  has  not  a  new  love  been  en- 
kindled more  than  once  upon  the  ashes  of  an  old  one? 
Alight  not  his  own  great,  abounding  love,  surviving 
despite  the  lack  of  anything  on  which  to  feed,  be  all- 
sufficient? 


DOROTHY 

The  thought  stifled  him.  He  walked  the  narrow 
length  of  the  car.  He  looked  out  upon  the  peaceful 
fields  through  which  he  journeyed,  but  all  the  while 
his  heart  made  emphatic  answer,  No!  He  knew,  he 
wanted  nothing  else,  could  take  nothing  else,  than  that 
love  which  a  woman  gives  but  once  in  her  life,  and, 
if  given,  is  forever  after  immortal. 

So  fearing,  doubting,  wondering,  at  each  stage  of 
the  irksome  journey,  if  this  were  not,  after  all,  a  fool's 
errand;  if  it  were  not  far  better  that  he  return  to  the 
books  he  had  quitted  so  suddenly;  yet  ever  despite  his 
fears  borne  forward  by  a  force  ouside  himself. 

The  visit  of  the  young  girl  (Dorothy  Ryedale,  as 
the  villagers  at  once  rightfully  called  her)  from  the 
"States"  had  been  the  wonder,  not  only  of  the  village 
of  Helbiethj  but  of  the  country-side  as  well.  So  many 
had  gone  to  far-away  America,  but  none  had  ever  re- 
turned. Old  neighbors  came  to  visit,  moved  not  a 
little  by  curiosity,  but,  once  in  the  cottage,  were  rich  in 
reminiscences  of  her  father  and  mother. 

To  all  of  these  the  young  stranger  listened  eagerly, 
hungrily.  The  aunts,  she  found,  lived  in  a  quaint, 
little,  low-roofed  cottage,  with  outspreading  eaves. 
Under  these  the  swallows  had  built  their  nests  for 
years,  and  now  flew  in  and  out  with  a  busy  air  of 
proprietorship.  The  grass  plat  in  front  was  scrupu- 
lously free  from  weeds  and  rows  of  flowers  (as  prim 
as  the  elder  Aunt  Elspeth)  reached  quite  to  the  door. 

These  aunts,  the  visitor  soon  learned,  were  persons 
of  no  small  consequence.  They  had  grown  up  and 
320 


FINALLY 

grown  old  in  the  manse;  for  their  father — and  the 
gentle-faced  one's  father — had  been  for  nearly  half  a 
century  the  beloved  minister  of  the  village.  Since  his 
death — and  it  was  told  Dorothy  that  sorrow  for  the 
death  of  his  beloved  daughter  had  hastened  it — a 
younger  minister  had  taken  his  place. 

This  had  happened  years  before;  yet  each  sister 
still  felt  that  a  great  responsibility  was  theirs  to  see 
that  the  affairs  of  the  kirk  were  properly  cared  for. 
Dorothy  had  not  been  long  in  the  village  until  she 
found  that  her  Aunt  Elspeth,  in  particular,  had  never 
been  one  to  shirk  any  responsibility  that  might  come 
her  way;  indeed,  it  was  broadly  hinted  that  it  was 
her  habit  to  sally  forth  in  search  of  such ;  and  occasion- 
ally, like  other  exceedingly  earnest  people,  had  been 
known  to  appropriate  some  that  might  rightfully  belong 
elsewhere. 

Once  certain  friends  from  her  father's  village  came 
to  meet  her,  and,  while  Elspeth  was  busy  with  the  rites 
of  hospitality,  they  told  her  under  their  breath  how 
the  young  Mary  had  stood  in  awe  of  this  older  sister 
(sister  and  mother  in  one,  for  the  mother  had  died 
early) ,  and  of  how,  when  the  tall,  handsome  young 
Highlander  had  come  to  woo,  Elspeth  forbade  her  to 
receive  him,  but  that,  through  it  all,  Jean  had  secretly 
helped ;  and  how  at  last  the  persistent  wooer  had  gained 
the  father's  consent.  Elspeth  had  not  been  present 
at  the  marriage,  which  had  taken  place  in  the  kirk,  nor 
did  she  say  farewell  when  the  two  turned  their  faces 
westward. 

But  if  this  were  true — and  it  was — she  had  been 

21  321 


DOROTHY 

quick  to  take  "Mary's  little  girl"  to  her  heart  (Jean 
had  loved  her,  even  before  she  came),  and  in  return 
the  "little  girl's"  heart  went  out  to  each.  It  became 
her  delight,  in  the  days  that  followed,  to  wander  about 
the  little  kirk,  and  among  the  grassy  old  graves  in  its 
shadow. 

She  tried  to  imagine  her  mother's  face  at  the  little 
dormer  window  of  the  manse,  which  Jean  told  her 
had  lighted  her  mother's  room. 

But  as  the  days  lengthened  into  weeks  her  old 
restlessness  returned,  and  the  insistent  question,  "What 
of  the  future?"  intruded  itself.  One  day,  unusually 
perplexed,  she  sat  down  in  the  little  parlor  to  think 
it  all  out.  For  the  first  time  she  was  realizing  how 
large  a  part,  in  her  past  life,  plans  for  this  visit  had 
held. 

But  a  future  stretched  out  before  her  for  which 
she  had  not  a  single  plan.  She  could  not  be  idle.  She 
had  chosen  independence.  She  must  abide  by  her 
choice. 

A  letter  received  from  Clay  before  she  sailed  told 
of  his  approaching  marriage.  As  she  read  it  she  could 
scarcely  have  defined  her  feelings.  She  was  glad;  of 
that  she  was  sure;  and  yet — the  memory  of  his  ardent 
wooing  of  but  a  year  ago,  came  to  her. 

Were  men,  after  all,  intrinsically  fickle,  .or  was 
love  a  mere  matter  of  the  story-books?  She  half 
believed  it;  for  Clay  had  written  in  one  breath  of  the 
wonderful  help  she  had  been  to  him,  of  how  he  owed 
to  her  every  high  aim  he  now  knew,  and  then  in 
rhapsodical  strains,  of  his  dainty  bride-to-be. 
322 


FINALLY 

So  thinking,  planning,  seeking  to  project  herself 
into  the  future,  she  heard  a  step  at  the  doorway. 

"Aunt  Jean,"  she  said  to  herself,  "is  bringing 
another  visitor." 

Mechanically  she  arose  to  greet  a  possible  neigh- 
bor, and,  instead,  a  tall,  broad-shouldered  man  seemed 
somehow  suddenly  to  fill  the  little  room.  There  was 
a  moment  of  tumultuous  heart-beat,  and  then  she  found 
herself  looking  into  a  pair  of  earnest,  compelling  eyes, 
— eyes  that  had  followed  her  throughout  the  years,  and 
now  seemed  in  their  first  glance  to  be  laying  bare  the 
very  secrets  of  her  soul. 

For  Robert  was  at  last  in  the  presence  of  Dorothy ! 
Dorothy  to  whom  time  had  added  new  graces,  and  had 
been  busy  in  enhancing  old  ones.  A  new  Dorothy; 
and  yet,  as  hand  touched  hand,  and  eyes  looked  into 
eyes — the  same  Dorothy,  his  heart  told  him,  he  had 
loved,  he  verily  believed,  since  that  now  distant  day 
when  she  had  first  crossed  his  path. 

It  is  hard  for  the  lips,  when  the  heart  announces 
a  crisis,  to  utter  the  mere  commonplaces.  So  it  was 
not  strange  that  the  greetings  between  the  two  were 
constrained,  formal. 

With  Robert,  the  words  he  meant  to  say  were 
left  unsaid,  and  he  blindly  stumbled  with  those  of 
which  he  had  not  thought.  The  greetings  over,  there 
was  no  lack  of  topics  for  conversation  such  as  Mac- 
Byrne's  presence  in  Berlin,  the  friends  at  the 
"Beeches;"  but  neither  pair  of  lips  mentioned  that  of 
which  each  thought,  Clay's  marriage. 

It  was  further  fortunate,  as  the  minutes  became 

323 


DOROTHY 

more  fraught  with  embarrassment,  that  Aunt  Elspeth 
should  come  in  to  greet  the  stranger,  and  that,  when 
she  learned  he  was  from  the  "States,"  she  should  be 
quick  to  offer  him  the  hospitality  of  the  little  home. 

While  each  of  the  aunts  was  busy  setting  out  the 
china,  and  giving  the  silver  an  extra  polish,  Dorothy, 
to  relieve  the  situation,  offered  to  show  him  the  pictur- 
esque kirk,  and  with  it  the  old  manse  home. 

Once  out  in  the  open,  her  self-possession  returned, 
and  she  was  her  old  enchanting  self,  ready  with  story 
and  legend  to  beguile  each  step.  Not  so  Robert.  With 
him,  love  and  pride  were  fighting  their  final  battle, 
and  ever  the  question  rang  in  his  ears,  Should  he  turn 
and  cry  out,  "Dorothy,  Dorothy!  I  have  always  loved 
you.  Whatever  happens,  I  must  forever  love  you." 
Then  should  he  entreat  her  to  come  to  him,  though 
perchance  her  heart  was  not  hers  to  give? 

No!  alas!  he  could  not!  Now  that  he  saw  her, 
felt  again  the  charm  of  her  presence,  his  heart  hungered 
afresh  for  her  love.  It  was  indeed  a  distrait  man  that 
mechanically  gave  his  attention  to  the  objects  pointed 
out,  and  later  attempted  to  enjoy  the  hospitality  that 
awaited  their  return. 

During  the  absence  of  the  two  the  village  doctor, 
an  old  friend  of  the  family,  had  dropped  in  to  talk 
over  once  more  that  strange  thing,  the  coming  of 
"Mary's  little  girl."  Elspeth  had  urged  him  to 
remain  and  meet  the  stranger.  "A  doctor  like  your- 
self," Elspeth  told  him;  and  when  he  further  learned 
that  he  was  but  recently  from  the  scenes  of  that  plague 

324 


FINALLY 

before  which  the  profession  had  stood  appalled,  even 
in  remoter  parts  of  the  world,  he  readily  consented. 

During  the  progress  of  the  meal,  Robert  aroused 
himself  to  answer  the  many  questions  asked,  and  to 
live  over  once  more  the  harrowing  scenes  through  which 
he  had  passed;  but  when,  from  a  chance  word,  the 
eager  questioner  learned  that  the  young  physician's 
own  mother  had  fallen  a  victim  to  the  same,  he  tact- 
fully and  sympathetically  led  the  conversation  from 
the  painful  subject. 

The  doctor  and  the  aunts  lingered  about  the  table, 
as  friends  will,  until  Dorothy  finally  excused  herself, 
and  passed  into  the  little  parlor.  It  began  to  appear 
that  the  doctor  would  be  compelled  to  bide  yet  longer, 
for  Elspeth's  soul  was  troubled  over  certain  threatened 
innovations  in  the  kirk,  and  she  was  bent  upon  sound- 
ing the  doctor  as  to  his  views.  Finally  Robert,  too, 
arose,  saying  he  would  join  Dorothy. 

She  was  standing  at  the  little  window,  and  slowly 
turned  at  his  entrance,  summoning  meanwhile  a  smile 
to  her  lips  and  a  careless  word  as  well,  one  that  would 
serve  not  to  betray  her  heart.  She  had  been  asking 
herself  in  the  moments  she  had  been  alone  if  a  certain 
figure  of  speech  were  not  a  false  one;  for  hearts,  she 
was  realizing,  did  not  "break,"  as  in  popular  parlance, 
but  certainly  they  might  be  crushed.  Her  own  was 
so  heavy  that  it  seemed,  surely,  the  weight  of  the 
mountain  yonder  was  resting  upon  it.  She  had  read 
Robert's  secret.  She  knew  his  love,  and,  alas!  his 
questionings;  and  yet  though  they  should  go  out  from 

325 


DOROTHY 

this  last  meeting  (as  they  probably  would)  to  separate 
ways  in  life,  yet  she  could  not  utter  the  explanatory 
word. 

"You  will  want  to  climb  our  mountain,"  she  began 
to  say,  when  just  then  Aunt  Jean  entered.  "The 
doctor  was  going,"  she  said,  "but  before  he  went  he 
would  see  the  little  picture  of  the  mother  he  remem- 
bered so  well" — a  picture  that  Dorothy  had  kept 
through  the  years,  and  one  which  had  journeyed  back 
to  Scotland  with  her. 

The  little  box  (we  have  seen  it  before),  in  which 
it  lay  with  other  keepsakes,  rested  on  the  low  mantel. 
Perhaps  that  which  now  happened  was  only  the  result 
of  Jean's  awkwardness,  or  again,  perhaps  fate,  kinder 
in  the  end  than  is  usually  supposed,  thought  best  to 
take  the  initiative  in  straightening  out  a  matter  that 
had  too  long  gone  awry.  At  any  rate,  Jean  stumbled, 
and  the  box  fell  to  the  floor,  and  its  contents  lay  at 
Robert's  feet. 

Stooping  to  replace  these,  his  wondering  eye  fell 
upon  a  still  crumpled  bit  of  silk,  the  very  same  (he  saw 
at  a  glance,  and  with  a  thrill  that  well-nigh  over- 
mastered him)  that  the  visiting  governor  had  placed 
in  his  hands  so  long  ago.  There  was  its  quaintly 
lettered  motto  "Success,"  appealing  to  him  as  if, 
although  despised  and  forgotten,  it  had  been  through 
the  years,  nevertheless,  his  talisman. 

Dorothy,  with  flaming  face,  saw  what  had  hap- 
pened, and  sprang  forward  to  recover  it.  Too  late! 
It  was  already  in  Robert's  hand,  and  had  whispered 

326 


FINALLY 

to  him  the  precious  secret  the  maiden  had  guarded  so 
well. 

In  an  instant,  quite  to  the  bewilderment  of  Jean, 
he  had  drawn  Dorothy  to  himself,  and  in  incohorent 
words  that  burned  with  the  repression  of  the  years,  he 
had  begun  to  pour  out  the  story  of  his  great  love; 
how,  from  the  first  day  of  meeting,  his  soul  had  seemed 
to  cleave  unto,  to  demand  hers;  how  he  had  wrought, 
ever  as  though  her  eyes  were  upon  him;  and  how, 
through  each  plan  of  his  life,  her  face  had  always 
beckoned  to  still  higher  achievement;  but  how,  alas! 
he  had  thought  her  love  was  irretrievably  another's, 
and  yet  how  his  had  persisted  against  his  will. 

Such  scenes  are  confessedly  awkward  to  those  who 
unfortunately  must  witness  them.  Even  the  tender- 
hearted Jean  stole  softly  away,  and  so  must  we;  but 
as  we  go  a  single  low  response  reaches  us.  It  is:  "O, 
Robert,  so  big,  so  noble,  and — and — yet — so — very — 
blind!" 

There  followed  a  blissful  week  for  the  lovers,  in 
which  Heaven  deigned  to  come  down  and  lend  its 
halo  to  earth,  and  the  little  village,  the  tiny  lake  near 
by,  and  the  mountains  that  close  at  hand  towered 
above  all,  each  basked  in  the  brightness  that  enveloped 
them.  Henceforth,  although  their  feet  might  tread 
distant  lands,  and  eyes  behold  far  different  scenes, 
these  must  remain  forever  transfigured. 

So,  has  it  been  alway. 

327 


DOROTHY 

Once  they  had  climbed  the  mountains,  and  had 
sat  down  to  rest  on  a  crag  that  overlooked  the  village. 
Robert  who,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  of  striving, 
was  realizing  the  sweets  of  idling,  lay  stretched  out  on 
the  ground  beside  Dorothy. 

Suddenly  he  drew  from  his  breast,  the  bit  of  silk 
that  had  brought  them  together.  He  spread  it  out 
lovingly  before  him,  smoothing  out  its  creases.  Then 
he  shifted  himself  until  he  lay  looking  quite  into 
Dorothy's  eyes.  "Tell  me,"  he  said  at  length,  "how 
it  all  came  about.  I  am  ashamed  to  ask  (the  asking 
implies  no  doubt),  but  the  wonder  of  it  fills  my  soul; 
for  I  remember  that  it  was  on  the  day  the  governor 
gave  me  this  that  I  thought — I  thought — I  had  lost 
you." 

"You  do  not  deserve  to  be  told,"  Dorothy  made 
response,  "you  have  been  so  very  sure  through  the 
years,  of  your  powers  of  penetration;  yet  if  you  wish 
it,  I  will." 

In  a  few  words  she  told  the  entire  story  of  the 
old,  innocent  plight  of  comradeship,  whose  seal  Robert 
had  witnessed;  and  then  she  told  him  of  how — her 
own  heart  sore — she  had  seen  him  angrily  toss  the 
talisman  aside,  and  had  recovered  it. 

Robert  was  silent  at  the  recital.  He  was  feeling 
keenly  the  lashes  of  chagrin  and  humiliation,  that  his 
own  hot  temper  and  heart  had  led  him  astray. 

Finally  he  spoke:  "Dorothy,  it  seems  to  me  that, 
through  the  years,  I  have  been,  to  put  it  mildly,  one 
veritable  fool." 

328 


FINALLY 

There  was  the  faintest  quiver  of  the  sweet,  mobile 
mouth,  as  if  a  shadow  of  a  smile  were  passing,  a  sparkle 
of  the  eye,  and  then  a  demure  and  meek  voice  made 
answer,  "It  ill  becometh  me  to  dispute  my  liege,  my 
lord." 

The  eyes  met,  the  shadow  became  a  smile,  and  in 
it  the  past  was  forgotten. 

"Dorothy,  do  you  know  I  have  just  begun  to 
appreciate  that  family  motto  of  which  I  have  so 
recently  learned ;  but  'I  wait'  no  longer.  You  must 
return  to  Germany  with  me." 

Robert,  man  that  he  was,  saw  no  reason  why  this 
could  not  be  so;  but  he  soon  encountered  one  he  was 
forced  to  recognize. 

"Is  it  not  an  important  event,"  Dorothy  reminded 
him,  "when  I  surrender  that  which  I  have  so  loved, 
my  individuality,  and  merge  it  into  yours,  and  is  not 
such  an  event  worthy  of  suitable  preparations?" 

So,  although  he  was  very  loath,  Robert  was  forced 
to  betake  himself  alone  to  the  "student  room"  he  had  so 
suddenly  quitted.  Once  there,  he  alternately  plunged 
into  his  studies  with  such  zeal  that  even  the  exacting 
Professors  eyed  him  with  interest,  or,  flinging  his  books 
aside,  he  tramped  the  streets  until  the  ever-watchful 
police  privately  marked  him  as  worth  watching. 

But  Dorothy  had  no  desire  to  prolong  the  separa- 
tion, and  at  last  the  day  drew  near  when  he  was  free 
to  return  to  Scotland.  This  time  he  did  not  journey 
alone.  It  had  been  an  added  joy  to  the  two  in  their 

329 


DOROTHY 

happiness  that  MacByrne's  presence  in  Berlin  would 
make  it  possible  that  he  be  present  to  utter  the  words 
that  would  make  them  of  "one  flesh." 

Besides  this  one  true  friend,  who  readily  adjusted 
his  work  to  the  happy  duty  that  awaited  him,  there 
were  the  Stuarts,  who  joined  them  at  Edinburgh. 

The  little  cottage  of  the  aunts  was,  in  these  days 
of  preparation,  in  a  high  state  of  excitement,  so 
much  so  that  it  had  quite  forsaken  the  usual  calm  of 
its  daily  ordering. 

Elspeth  hovered  near,  now  swayed  by  a  strong 
pride  that  her  home  was  the  center  of  so  much  interest 
(for  the  village  knew  the  story  of  the  lovers,  and, 
laying  all  other  matters  aside,  was  giving  itself  wholly 
to  the  strange  wedding  that  was  to  be  celebrated  in 
their  own  little  kirk).  But,  alas  for  Elspeth!  sorrow 
mingled  with  her  pride  for  "Mary's  little  girl"  had 
come,  only  so  soon  to  leave. 

What  bitterness  of  heart,  what  reproaches  of  con- 
science, this  stern,  silent  woman  had  known  through 
the  years,  we  may  not  know.  But  we  do  know  that, 
when  Dorothy  had  first  crossed  the  threshold  of  her 
door,  she  had  reverently  bowed  her  head,  and  had 
cried  out  that  "God  was  very  good;"  and  now  in  these 
last  hurried  days,  no  task  seemed  too  hard  to  under- 
take. Thus  do  some  souls  penance. 

It  had  been  planned  that  the  two  should  walk 
together  to  the  kirk;  for  Jean's  herb  and  flower-filled 
garden  ran  quite  up  to  its  shadowy  rear,  and  through 
the  garden  a  path  of  clean,  white  gravel,  that  the  sea 
had  kissed,  led  directly  to  the  door,  and  Jean  had 
330 


FINALLY 

seen  to  it  that  flower-filled  beds  along  its  border  were 
like  unto  patches  of  the  blue  above  their  heads,  so 
heavily  laden  with  bloom  were  the  bluebells  that 
"Mary"  had  always  loved. 

Promptly  as  the  hour  struck,  Robert  entered  the 
little  room  where  waited  his  bride.  We  do  not 
know  what  was  said,  as  they  two  were  alone,  in  those 
last  moments.  But  as  they  stepped  out  through  the 
little,  low  door  into  the  open,  there  was  a  look  upon 
the  face  of  each  that  might  have  thrilled  an  angel.  It 
was  if  two  souls  that,  in  the  beginning,  had  started  in 
search,  each  of  the  other,  had  at  last  met.  And  though, 
they  had  traveled  long  and  wearily,  now  leaving  the 
path,  now  journeying  in  barren  wildernesses,  yet,  in 
the  glad  finding,  each  dream  of  life  was  having  its 
richest  fulfillment,  each  perplexing  question  its  answer. 

Dorothy  had  never  looked  more  beautiful.  Her 
wealth  of  dark-brown  hair  was  brushed  back  from, 
and  lay  loosely  above,  the  exquisitely  molded  and 
mobile  face  which  in  the  present  moment,  true  to  its 
old  tell-tale  qualities,  now  whispered  its  story  of  happy 
content,  and,  as  of  old,  of  a  strong  purpose — a  pur- 
pose to  be,  to  the  man  by  her  side,  as  nearly  as  lay 
within  her  power,  all  of  which  he  dreamed,  all  of 
which  he  hoped.  She  was  simply  gowned  in  white, 
and  wore  but  a  single  ornament.  Mrs.  Stuart  had 
placed  about  the  shapely  white  throat,  as  she  was 
leaving  her,  a  necklace  of  beautiful  pearls.  A  single 
ornament,  did  we  say?  There  was  yet  another,  for 
Jean,  at  the  last,  had,  amid  her  tears,  twisted  into  the 
lace  at  the  front  of  the  gown  a  single  spray  of  heather. 

331 


DOROTHY 

As  she  did  so  she  had  whispered  amid  her  tears,  "You 
will  not  forget  your  mother's  home,  dearest."  No, 
it  would  not  be  like  Dorothy  to  forget. 

The  pair  stood  in  the  little  kirk  where  she  of  the 
sweet  face  and  he  of  the  rarely  brave  heart  had  stood 
so  many  years  before.  It  was  a  simple  ceremony  that 
made  the  twain  one.  The  kirk  had  not  seen  a  simpler  ; 
but  it  was  all-sufficient,  for  in  it  MacByrne  had  com- 
mitted the  two  to  the  keeping  of  the  God  he  knew  and 
served;  and  there  we  leave  them,  confident  that  life 
holds  for  each  usefulness,  and,  if  usefulness,  happiness. 


Postscript: — Aunt  Violet  had  just  been  told  of  the 
marriage  that  had  taken  place  so  far  away.  She  had 
also  heard  discussed,  in  the  same  breath,  the  probable 
future  home  of  the  couple;  for  the  Professor  had 
learned  that  the  college  which  had  known  Robert  as  a 
student  had  made  him  an  offer  that  would  afford  him 
practical  work,  and  at  the  same  time  facilities  for  the 
"original  research"  he  so  coveted.  So,  in  all  pro- 
bability, the  two  would  shortly  return  to  the  home- 
land. 

332 


FINALLY 

Violet  sat  in  silence.  Involuntarily  her  eyes  sought 
the  near-by  woodland.  We  are  inclined  to  think  that 
they  were  "holden"  to  the  beautiful  building  that  now 
graced  its  central  knoll;  instead  she  must  have  seen 
only  a  certain  lithesome  figure  that,  in  other  years,  had 
been  wont  to  disappear  within  the  shadows;  for  she 
turned  to  the  one  who  waited  by  her  side,  and  said, 
"  'Pears  like,  Mis'  Millicent,  she  always  was — right 
from  the  very  first — just  like  ouah  own  folks.  She 
is  now  sho'  enuff." 


333 


